


This Fire Isn’t For You

by maycollins



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Baz cries a lot, Baz is suicidal, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Simon is still trying to save everyone, they both have ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19838926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maycollins/pseuds/maycollins
Summary: ON HIATUS UNTIL SCHOOL IS OVER :(Baz thinks the world would be better without him in it.Simon Snow will do anything to prove him wrong.But between protecting his boyfriend from his own self hatred, figuring out what he wants to study at university, and dealing with a new magical ally (or threat, Simon’s not quite sure yet), there’s a lot on the former Chosen One’s plate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “I was eleven years old, and I'd lost my mother, and my soul, and the Crucible gave me you.”  
> I read this quote and thought “that’s a super unstable trade”, and I considered the first SnowBaz kiss, and how it just kind of erased the fact that Baz tried to kill himself, so I wanted to write about these angsty disaster boys figuring out how to work on themselves and build an actually healthy relationship and deal with their own problems, and this just happened.

**Simon**

“What are you doing? Close the bloody blinds,” Baz grumbles, burying his head in the blanket.

Baz is a vampire, and the sun hurts him more than the rest of us, so I feel moderately guilty letting the morning sun through the windows. Just not guilty enough to do anything about it.

“You have class in fifteen minutes,” I tell him.

When we were roommates at Watford, Baz was always awake, finished with his ridiculously long hair care process, and out before I even managed to blink my eyes open, but he’s different now.

“I”m not going.”

He was also at the top of our class, and it took being kidnapped for him to break his perfect attendance record. Even when he was fifteen and thirsting for blood, he was the first one to his desk in every class.

I tried to get him to talk to my therapist after everything with his mum and the Mage and the Humdrum, but he keeps insisting he’s fine.

I want to argue him out of bed, or at least stay home with him, but I’m already running late.

“Well, I’ve got a meeting with my advisor, and then classes until four, and Penny’s locking herself in the campus library until finals are over, so you’ll have the place to yourself today.”

Technically, Baz lives with his aunt Fiona, though I’m pretty sure he only agreed to that because he knew he’d be here most of the time. No use in him getting his own flat if he’s never going to be in it.

I kind of wish he’d go to Fiona’s flat when me and Penelope are out, though, not because he’s not completely welcome here, but because I don’t want him to be alone.

When there’s no one around to make me think of things, I just don’t.

When there’s no one around to distract Baz, all he does is think.

My therapist says its good to think of things, “to process them,” and I’ve gotten a lot better at acknowledging my feelings. Baz isn’t processing though; he’s just letting the self hatred circle and get bigger and bigger, and I saw once how big it can get.

I can’t ever let it get that big again.

But I also have to live my own life, go to my gen-ed classes until I figure out what sticks, make Normal friends and just try to learn what it means not to be the Chosen One anymore.

I reluctantly gather my stuff to go, watching Baz grumble and turn over to go back to sleep, though we weren’t up particularly late last night, and he’s surely rested enough by now.

**Baz**

I know Simon is worried about me.

Whenever I catch him watching me now, it’s always with an expression of pity or concern.

_I’m_ the one who’s supposed to be concerned. _Simon’s_ the one to be pitied.

He lost everything.

His father figure.

His goatherd friend.

His magic.

My mother’s killer is dead (I never told Simon it was the Mage; despite everything the man had done, Simon loved him, and I couldn’t be the one to take that away from him) and I get to be with the boy I’ve fantasized about since fifth year and wanted for even longer.

My life is bloody perfect.

When I hear Simon leave the flat, locking the door behind him, I get up to close the blinds and get dressed. I only acted like I went back to sleep to spare myself Snow’s questions.

Economics is just so boring.

It’s all charts and numbers and theories I don’t give a single fuck about. I know I need it, need some practical degree to fall back on when the world of Mages realizes what I am, but today, I just don’t want to deal with it.

Bunce has left some Young Adult book called _The Fault in Our Stars_ on the coffee table. She’s studying Communications and Literature so she can make a living creating spells when she graduates. Right now, she’s interested in “modern classics” and internet trends, phrases that might end up having staying power, but could also be forgotten by the end of the semester.

She loves talking about what she’s working on; it’s people like Bunce who prove that we should have magickal universities so people like her can get together and share their ideas. She settles for sharing with me.

It still feels wrong mentioning magic around Simon, like waving a jar of peanut butter in front of someone with a nut allergy, so me and Penelope mostly confer when he’s away. She has a whiteboard in her room of potential sayings, and ways they could be used, and when Simon’s off at classes or away running errands, I get to add my own thoughts and suggestions to it.

It’s all so interesting, so much more interesting that _Economics_ , and when Simon comes back and we have to stop, I’m left distracted and on edge, like the most interesting puzzle has been taken from me when I’m just pieces from solving it.

I love Simon, though, so I can tear myself away from magic like I’m going to have to do someday anyways, and let him be enough.

I imagine sometimes the two of us all grown up, me shunned by magicians, him without magic, living a Normal life - a house with a white picket fence, a little yappy dog, and kids who will never go to Watford - and I can almost pretend I like the thought of it.

I pick up Penelope’s book and start flipping through it, but I can’t make my brain regester the words.

Crowley, this place is quiet without Bunce and Snow.

I didn’t used to hate the quiet like this, used to beg for it when, despite insisting we were enemies, Snow wouldn’t shut up from the moment he stepped into our room in Mummers Tower to the moment he stepped out.

Now, it’s just kind of lonely, much too close to the future I can’t even pretend to like, the one where Simon realizes I really am a monster, where he finally sees clearly enough to know he deserves someone better, someone with a soul. Without Snow’s insistent nagging or Bunce’s fascinating theories to keep me busy, it’s too easy to consider that that future is probably the best possible outcome, the one where Simon gets out before I hurt him.

I know it’s selfish to stick around, but I don’t have the willpower to back away from Simon until he tells me to go. Even now, sitting on the couch and considering the danger I put him in, all I want is for him to come home and tell me I’m wrong so I can pretend to believe it.

Maybe I should have gone to class.

I flick through the channels on the telly, actually do end up reading some of _The Fault in Our Stars_ , and it’s 4:09 when Simon texts that he’s on his way home.

“Dan is having a party at his flat tonight. Do you want to come?” Simon asks in one breath before he’s fully through the door.

His brows are knit together in indecisiveness, like he spent the whole Uber ride deciding whether to bring it up.

Simon likes parties, likes making friends with strangers and getting a little tipsy.

Simon hates me at parties. He thinks I “engage in self destructive behaviors.” I think if we’re going to play at being Normal University students, we may as well fully commit.

He hates leaving me at home alone even more, ever since he came home from a night out with Penelope to find me sloshed and crying into a bottle of Fireball.

There were extenuating circumstances. It had been the anniversary of the attack on the nursery, but now, when Bunce is out, Simon does everything to keep me from being alone.

I notice his hair is even messier than usual, and shit, he’s probably been pulling at it all day, guilty to have left me by myself. I’ll go to class next week, I decide, if only to save him the stress.

For now, I just pull him into my arms, pecking him once on the lips before hugging him close.

“Yeah, a party sounds fun,” I say into his curls. “Want to get dinner first?”

“We should probably cook something. I waste too much money ordering food.”

He tries to pull away, and I find myself tightening my grip, not ready to let him go just yet. It just really is kind of awful spending the day without even talking to another person.

“Is everything alright?” He lets me keep our bodies together and pulls his head back enough to look into my eyes, searching my gaze like it might hold some sort of answer or solution.

“Can’t I just want to hug my boyfriend?” I ask and press my lips firmly to his so he doesn’t try to respond.

As I open my mouth against his, I walk us back to the couch until I’m sitting and he’s straddling my lap.

**Simon**

I could kiss Baz forever.

Well, I could if it weren’t for my dick and its reaction to every small sound he makes, every swipe of his tongue in my mouth, every press of his fingertips into my back through my t-shirt.

I’ve been hard for half an hour at least, and it’s starting to actually hurt.

I know Baz is just as affected under me, but I try not to grind down. If I grind down, he’ll make us stop, and I don’t want to stop.

It’s been like this for months, just snogging until it becomes too much and we take turns in the shower finishing ourselves off. I’m never going to pressure Baz for more than he’s ready to give, but he seems to hate our situation even more than I do.

I think it’s because he really thought he was ready up until we actually tried anything.

It was the night of the Leavers Ball, and our kiss on the dance floor turned from sweet to dirty _really_ quick. All elegant dancing distance between us had disappeared, and I knew he could feel where I was already half hard in the fancy hand-me-down trousers Mr. Wellbelove gave me.

“You know, I don’t have a roommate,” he whispered, breath hot on my ear, tone half joking and half suggestive.

“Yes,” I answered brain already having trouble making words. “Our room. Now.”

His eyes widened for just a second like he hadn’t thought I would actually agree, but then he smirked, and I almost doubted I’d seen the surprise.

When we got to the room that still felt like home, even after my months away from it, my heart was racing in anticipation.

I wasn’t even properly sure I was gay, and I was alone with a bloke in my bedroom (though also technically his) with the intention of doing _things_ , like _sexy things_.

As if reading my mind, Baz said, “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

I wanted.

“I want.”

Then I was pressed against the closed door, Baz’s arms bracketing my chest, his leg slipping between my thighs as his mouth moved insistently against mine. Even though Baz’s body was cold, every place we touched burned with heat.

When he thrust his hips forward, his leg ground against my crotch, and I let out a moan at the contact. He pulled away, and I thought I might have done something wrong, but he just slid his jacket off his shoulders and started unbuttoning his dress shirt.

I thought I should probably do the same, but I couldn’t focus on anything but the expanse of milky skin slowly being revealed to me. My mouth actually watered at the sight of his defined abs like I was walking by the kitchen while the cherry scones baked.

“Don’t just stand there like an idiot,” he huffed. (Our ratio of scathing to soft was still rather high back then).

So I didn’t, rushing forward to push his shirt the rest of the way off his shoulders, taking the chance to run my hands along every inch of his exposed skin. I walked him backward while he struggled with my own buttons until his knees hit the edge of the bed that had been mine when we shared the room (and was surprisingly more rumpled and slept-in than Baz’s now) and he fell back on to it. He scooted up so his head was on the pillows as I climbed over him.

We were kissing sloppily, rutting without finesse while our hands explored all the newly revealed skin for only a moment before my world spun and then I was on my back with Baz looming over me.

I should’ve realized it would be like this, a tug-of-war for dominance, for control. I let him have it.

Everything already felt so mind blowingly incredible that I decided to take it a step further.

I let my hand fall to the button on Baz’s trousers, meeting his eyes to ask, “Can I?”

I fully expected him to say something rude or sarcastic to hide how much he wanted it.

Instead, he whined, “please.”

With the heat that word alone sent through me, it took me twice as long as it should have to get the button unfastened and the zip pulled down, though Baz didn’t once tease me for it. I pushed the trousers and pants just below Baz’s arse, and I had to pause at the image, Baz kneeling over me, long hair dark and framing his face, which was open and relaxed in a way I almost never got to see it, desire so apparent in his gaze that my skin warmed where it fell.

“You’re gorgeous,” I said, the words skipping over my brain to mouth filter, and I flushed at the honesty.

“Was about to say the same thing,” he said.

I wasn’t even sure what to do with another guy’s dick, but before I could start overthinking it, Baz leaned down to kiss me, softly this time, unhurried, and when he pulled away, it was only centimeters.

I was staring ridiculously lovingly into his ocean-grey eyes when I tentatively reached out to wrap a hand around him. He gasped quietly, and emboldened, I slid the hand delicately over his length.

I could feel already that there was more friction than I usually liked when I wanked, so I asked, “Is this okay? Is it too rough?”

He shook his head fiercely, hair flying as he did and moaned, “Perfect. Don’t stop.”

I moved my hand again and watched his eyes flutter shut in pleasure, continued watching his expression as I built up a rhythm, the way it tightened and scrunched as he got closer.

Since I was studying him so closely, I saw the moment he froze, panic painting his previously content expression.

“Stop!” He cried out, and my hand had already stilled the moment his face changed, so I took it off him completely, holding it, and my other one, over my head like someone held at wand tip.

Confusion didn’t even have time to wash over me before he was scrambling off the bed, across the room, like he was scared of something.

“Baz?” I pushed myself up to my knees, and the movement had him cowering like a frightened animal.

Had I done something wrong?

Had I hurt him?

“Just...just…” he stammered. “Just give me a second.”

His voice was off, like his mouth was stuffed with cotton, and it was then I noticed the fullness in his mouth, like he had a hard candy in each cheek.

His fangs.

He wasn’t scared _of_ me; he was scared _for_ me.

To break the tension, I asked, “have you been sleeping in my bed?”

He cracked a smile, and it wasn’t alright, but I believed it would be.

He still refuses to talk about that day, refuses to say anything each time we part unsatisfied.

I get it, I really do. I’m being patient.

But nothing is going to get better if Baz won’t communicate, about this, about everything really.

I finally push myself off him.

“I should, uhh, shower,” I say, slightly out of breath.

“Yeah, I’ll go after you,” he agrees.

**Baz**

Simon thinks I’m scared of hurting him, but it’s not that exactly.

If I was just scared, I could bloody well get over it and have sex with my ridiculously fit boyfriend. Scared is a feeling, and feelings can be changed.

This is just reality.

If I lose control, I’ll hurt him, and the night of the Leavers Ball, I felt how fragile my control really is. I won‘t get so close again. I won’t put him at risk.

**Simon**

The party is well underway by the time Baz and I arrive at Dan’s flat, music drifting down the hallway leading up to the door. A stranger greets us when I knock, and inside, the lights are dimmed, people fill every corner of space, and it’s so loud, I don’t think I would be able to hear Baz even though he’s right next to me.

I scan the crowd and find Dan hanging out by the breakfast bar that sections off the kitchen. For this party, it seems it’s been turned into a regular bar. A stack of plastic cups is on one corner, and the rest of the surface is covered in bottles of alcohol and soda and juice for mixers.

Usually, Baz would be off doing his own thing by now, but he hasn’t let go of my hand yet, trailing behind as I push my way through the crowd to greet our host.

“THIS IS A LOT,” I yell so Dan can hear me.

He pulls me into a drunk hug, wrenching my hand from Baz’s. I look back to check that it’s alright, but Baz is already pouring himself a drink.

“FUN THOUGH, ONCE YOU GET A DRINK IN YOU,” Dan yells back.

We met in first year English class, and to date, our entire friendship consists of going to parties together and pairing up for projects when they’re assigned.

“I’LL GET ON THAT THEN.”

I move to join Baz in getting a drink, but he’s already at my side with a cup in each hand. He passes me what looks like a screwdriver.

“STACK CUP IN MY ROOM IN FIVE MINUTES,” Dan adds before disappearing into the party.

Baz leans in until his lips are against my ear and asks, “You want to play?”

I nod.

I like stack cup a lot even though I’m terrible at it. I always end up drinking twice as much as anyone else.

Baz, on the other hand, is unnaturally good. The only way he drinks is when he intentionally misses, which he does a lot. He explained to me once that it doesn’t make sense that drinking is always the punishment when it should be the reward.

He leads me to Dan’s room, which he probably remembers from the number of other parties the boy has thrown. It’s not been five minutes, but Dan is already there, pouring shots from a handle of vodka.

“Perfect timing!” He says at our entrance, holding shots out to us. I have to let go of Baz’s hand to take one.

“What’re we drinking to then?” Baz asks with a condescending eyebrow raise as if he’s somehow above this.

Dan’s grin turns cheeky as he glances at me.

“To Simon Snow once again losing at stack cup,” he says.

I want to argue that stack cup isn’t even technically a game with winners and losers, but he’s kind of right anyway, so I just raise my shot glass for the toast.

It burns going down, and I try to wash away the taste with my mixed drink.

“Did you literally get the cheapest vodka you could buy?” Baz asks.

Dan laughs, and I’m grateful for friends easygoing enough to take my boyfriend’s less kind tendencies in stride. “If you have such high standards, bring your own next time.”

Baz looks ready to reply, but people are starting to file in, and Dan turns away to set up the game.

Three rounds in, and my head is already starting to feel a little light. I don’t think I’ve actually had that much, like two beers in the game, the shot, and the screwdriver, which Baz has kindly gone to refill for me, but it also hasn’t even been a half hour since I got here.

I wouldn’t call myself drunk yet, but I’m well on my way, and I tell everyone I’m going to sit a round or two out. Baz rolls his eyes at that and hands me my new drink.

“Don’t be daft, I’ll drink for you,” he says.

I look at him, and he seems sober enough, though with Baz, it’s sometimes misleading. He can be completely wasted and appear totally fine, then like a switch, one last drink will send him over the edge. Sometimes, that makes him playful, insisting on dancing until the music stops; sometimes, he gets very cuddly; mostly though, it ends with him crying in whatever corner he can find or throwing up in the nearest bin, none of which he’ll remember come morning.

But Baz’s tolerance is really high, and he’s only on his second mixed drink like me, plus the shot, and he hasn’t had anything in the game, so I figure, even with how bad I am at this game, he’ll be fine.

After a few more rounds, the last of which I resume drinking for myself, one more mixed drink that Baz goes out to fetch, the game starts to dissolve. Everyone is just a little too far gone to bother setting up the cups again, and most of them return to the living room to dance and drink more.

When Dan’s room has mostly cleared out, he holds up what I recognize as a joint. I tried weed once, but it just kind of left me feeling sleepy and bored, so I don’t usually partake. I’m getting ready to leave when Baz tugs on my hand.

“Just keep me company,” he murmurs, pulling my back to his chest and leaning to rest his chin on my shoulder. He’s even colder than usual, but with how hot alcohol makes me feel, it’s a welcome sensation.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” I turn to whisper in his ear. “You’re-”

He cuts me off.

“If you say flammable…” he doesn’t bother to keep his voice low, and Dan turns to stare at us in confusion.

“You are though,” I whisper.

Rather than argue further, Baz takes the joint and breathes in deeply. He holds onto it when he exhales, positioning his fingers dangerously near the burning end and takes another drag.

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he passes it off to some girl I recognize from maths and I feel air rush into my lungs.

“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” Baz huffs. “It’s a joint, not a forest fire.”

My heart stills then speeds up. “That’s not funny.” Then quieter, “I just want to keep you alive.”

Baz’s laugh is bitter, and I hear Dan say something about giving us some space before the door is closing, separating us from him and all the other Normals at this party. I should care more than we’re making a scene, but I only care about Baz.

“You’ve missed the mark on that by about fourteen years,” he says.

And now I’m angry, rage bubbling under my skin like my magic used to. I swing around to face him. “Is that really what you think? That you’re already dead, so fuck it, no difference if you make it official?”

He shrugs, but that’s not an answer, and it has my blood boiling further. “No for real though?” I’m shouting, but I can’t find it in myself to calm down. “Do you really not think it would matter if you were dead for real?”

His voice is so soft I almost don’t hear it when he says, “It would be different. Would be better.”

Then he’s sniffling, and _this_ is why I don’t like taking Baz to parties.

“How are you drunk? I thought we were drinking the same amount?” I force my voice to be even.

“I poured mine stronger,” he sniffles.

I hadn’t even considered that as an option, and Crowley am I bad at this looking out for my boyfriend thing. Now he’s drunk and sad, and I should’ve been paying better attention.

He sways a bit on his feet, and I step in to wrap my arms around his waist, partly for comfort, partly to steady him. I want to ask if he’s okay, but it seems ridiculous to say when his shoulders are shaking and his cheeks are wet with tears.

“It wouldn’t be better for me if you died,” I finally say, squeezing him even tighter. “I love you, and I would be absolutely miserable if something happened to you.”

“I know. S’why I’m still here. Would never hurt you like that.”

I know that’s all the reassurance I’m going to get, so even though it’s not nearly enough, I take it.

“Let’s go home,” I say, taking his hand.

We make it through the party and down the first flight of stairs before Baz sways again. He reaches for the railing as I reach for him, and the combination steadies him enough to keep him from falling.

“I’m gonna sit,” he says and does just that, plopping down on one of the steps. I join him, resting a hand on his back.

“Are you going to throw up?” I ask.

“No. No. I’m not dizzy, just lightheaded. I…” He fishmouths for a second like he doesn’t want to admit something and is looking for a way around it before he says, “I haven’t fed in a little while.”

“Baz!” I’m pretty sure if a vampire goes to long without feeding, it’ll die, but Baz and I have already argued about his suicidal tendencies today, so I don’t say anything about that. “How long?”

He stares resolutely at his feet. “Two weeks.”

“Why?”

“Just wanted to be a regular person.”

“I’m calling your aunt. She can get you blood, and give us a ride home.” I’m so incredibly out of my depth here (turns out there’s no manual for how to take care of your drunk, casually suicidal vampire boyfriend), and getting an actual adult seems like it might be my best bet.

“I can just wait until tomorrow, and find something to drink then.”

“You can’t even stand properly; you’re not waiting.”

“She’ll be mad.” He sniffles again, and his head falls onto my shoulder. I card my fingers through his limp hair. I should’ve noticed he was starving; he’s been so pale, so cold, missing so much of his usual luster, but I just couldn’t connect the dots.

“She’ll be _worried_ ,” I correct.

“That’s worse.”

“I’m calling her.”

He sinks into me, and we wait on the steps like that until Fiona Pitch storms in with all her usual bluster.

“What the hell Basil? You haven’t been feeding?” She shoves a bag of blood, like the kind they use in hospitals, into his hands. “You have some sort of death wish?”

He shrugs, and she blanches, going even paler than he is. He doesn’t notice, already using the top part of the blood bag like a straw, drinking from it like it’s a juice pouch. She turns her attention to me, and even though Baz and I are the ones who’ve been drinking, she looks like she’s going to be sick. Her eyes hold all sorts of questions I can’t begin to decipher, let alone answer.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say because I don’t.

“How bad is it?”

“He tried to light himself on fire before Christmas last year.” I hadn’t realized how much responsibility is was being the only one to know that, but now that I’ve told her, I feel so much lighter. “Nothing that extreme since then though.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Baz says, but he seems to regret it when Fiona returns her focus to him.

“You know Normals get sent to bloody hospital for less. You tried to kill yourself, and now you’re trying to do it slowly, and you’re just sitting here acting like it’s no big deal. It’s a big fucking deal, Basil.”

Baz is silent, and he shrinks in closer to my side.

Fiona sighs. “You’re drunk, so I’ll drop it for now, but this conversation is not over.”

The car ride home is unnervingly silent, as is our nighttime routine. It’s only when Baz and I are both in bed, facing each other under the covers, that Baz finally speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, and I don’t even know what he’s apologizing for, but the sad sniffles he’s been making all night give way to full on sobs, and I’m too busy curling my body around his protectively and tracing soothing circles on his back to wonder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings in End Notes (if there’s something else I should add, please tell me)
> 
> I meant to actually introduce a plot this chapter, but instead, have more of Baz crying (and some bonus Simon crying), and plot will start next time. (I honestly don’t know why I’m like this)

**Baz**

When I wake up, I feel better than I have in weeks.

Well, in two weeks.

My eyes are puffy, and my head throbs, but I’m warm, and I’m full. And completely humiliated.

When I drink, there is a very particular level of intoxication I aim to avoid: the space where I’m drunk enough to embarrass myself and sober enough to remember all of it. I very much remember last night.

I cried. A lot.

I told Simon I hadn’t been feeding.

I told Simon it would be better if I were dead. (That doesn’t make me suicidal; it’s just a fact).

Simon told Aunt Fiona about last year. I thought we were past that; figured he’d forgotten about my dramatic outburst in the woods somewhere between all the snogging and facing the Humdrum. It certainly paled in comparison to everything that followed that Christmas, but now he’s gone and brought it up.

I guess, technically, I brought it up when I was picking a fight about the joint, but I just wanted to get under his skin. It wasn’t like a cry for help or anything.

I know last night won’t have anyone believing it, but I’m _fine_.

**Simon**

I can tell from the way his breathing has changed that Baz is awake, but for the first time in months, I don’t know what to say to him.

After a few moments of silence, he turns to face me. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he says.

“We do.”

“I’m not going to kill myself.” He rolls his eyes like it’s ridiculous of me to even think he might, but I know Baz. Minimizing my worry is his way of putting up a wall, which he’s only doing because I’m close to a truth he isn’t willing to admit.

It would’ve been more believable if he’d just said it straight.

I’d be proud of my ability to read him if I wasn’t so damn worried.

“Would you’ve said the same thing this time last year?”

He’s silent for a beat to long before saying, “That wasn’t as big a deal as you make it sound. It’s not like I cast **Tyger, tyger burning bright**.”

I want to argue his whole premise, that the difference between lighting himself on fire and trapping himself in a burning forest isn’t as big as he thinks it is. But. **Tyger, tyger burning bright**. That’s the spell his mother used.

I think he realizes it the moment I do. He deflates, fight going out of him.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean because she cast it. I should’ve used something else as my example.”

“But you used that one.”

His lip quivers, and Baz crying sober is as uncommon as Baz crying drunk is common. Still, his voice is steely when he says, “I’m done talking about this.”

He gets out of bed, slamming the door a little harder than necessary as if to punctuate his point.

Maybe I should let that be the end, should drop it like he wants me to. I don’t want to upset him further.

It’s just.

I knew Baz wasn’t alright, noticed him skipping classes and drinking too much, saw how quickly he lapsed into self hatred when I couldn’t be there telling him how much I loved him. But I didn’t realize how bad it was.

And he didn’t want to talk about it, so I dropped it. Every time he did something that made my heartbeat spike in worry for him, I let it go.

I knew that he had tried to kill himself last year, but I thought just being with me would be enough to make it better, enough to make him not want to. I should’ve understood that a few kisses wouldn't erase all that pain, but Baz _is_ always telling me how thick I am. I had all the clues, but I couldn’t put them together, so I let it all slide.

Now, though, I know. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to make him feel better. To keep him alive.

Even if it means having a conversation he doesn’t want to have.

I follow him into the sitting room, ready to insist we talk, but he’s motionless in the center of the small space, tears streaming down his cheeks, though he doesn’t seem to notice them. He’s shaking.

“Baz,” I say softly. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even turn to look at me. It’s like he’s somewhere else. 

“Baz,” I try again louder.

**Baz**

I can’t stop seeing my mother’s face as it was the last time I saw it.

I’m in the nursery, flooded with people who look more like animals, whose lips are drawn back over mouthfuls of sharp teeth. I don’t know who they are or what’s going on, but Mistress Mary is screaming for help, and now my mother is here. I think for a second it’s alright now, because she’s here to protect me, but then she lunges for one of the strangers.

Around me, there’s fire, and blood, and everyone is so much taller than me that I can’t see what’s happening, can’t find her in the chaos. I can only feel the heat from the flames flying over my head and hear screams echoing off the high ceilings.

Then, one of them lifts me up by the back of my dungarees, and I can’t breathe, but I can see her, so it’s going to be fine.

Before I feel the vampire’s teeth sink into my neck, I see her face twist in anguish. It’s not fear for my life written in her features, but the knowledge that my life is already over.

“Baz,” I hear Simon say to me, but it’s like it’s through a wall of flames.

I’m frozen in the moment before I lose consciousness, her eyes locked on mine, and I’m an adult now, so I understand what that expression on her face means: she didn’t just kill herself to spare the world from the monster she’d become, but to spare herself the monster I would.

She probably hoped my father would do the right thing and let me succumb to the wound.

He probably wishes he had.

“Baz, it’s Simon. We’re in our sitting room. You’re safe.”

**Simon**

I recognize this. I’ve been on the other side of this.

Baz is having a flashback.

My therapist told me that when you experience a trauma, your brain isn’t properly able to process and store the memory, so when something brings it back up, it’s like it’s happening again for the first time. That was one of the first things we worked on, processing everything that happened that night in the White Chapel, so I can at least go about my life without freaking out every time I hear _Bohemian Rhapsody._

I still have nightmares, but nothing like what Baz is going through now in months.

I’ve never seen Baz like this at all.

Like, I know he’s had the same traumatic experiences as the rest of us, and then some, but he puts so much effort into acting like nothing affects him.

I wonder if this has happened to him before.

I wonder if he wakes up sweating and terrified, and I’m just too deep of a sleeper to notice.

Crowley, I’m a terrible boyfriend.

But, at least I know enough about this to help him now.

“Baz, it’s Simon. We’re in our sitting room. You’re safe.”

He whimpers, which is the first acknowledgement he’s given that he can hear me.

“You’re having a flashback, but you’re safe, and I’m here.”

He whimpers again.

“Is it okay if I touch you? You remember how that grounds me when this happens to me.”

He doesn’t answer, so I reach for his hand slowly, tentatively, giving every chance for him to pull away. He doesn’t, and when I make contact with his freezing fingers, he tangles them with mine and grips my hand like his life depends on it.

I step in closer and say, “I’m going to hug you now because, remember, pressure increases serotonin and decreases the nervous system’s response and makes you feel calmer, but you can pull away if you’re uncomfortable.”

I know I’m rambling about facts he probably doesn’t care at all about, but I think just my voice is helping him, is pulling him out a bit, so I keep rambling as I move into his space.

“My therapist told me a lot about brain structures and chemicals involved in this kind of thing, and it’s super interesting, like all of this is a side effect of your brain trying to protect you.”

At each new point of contact between our bodies, I pause to gauge Baz’s response, and at each point, he seems to sink into the touch. When I’m sure I’m not upsetting him further, I wrap my arms around his chest (not his shoulders, so he has his arms free to push me away if he needs to) and rest my head against his collarbone.

“Maybe I should study psychology, become the world’s fourth therapist for mages.”

I feel Baz’s arms come around me and pull me in closer. His heart is still racing and he’s hyperventilating, but he chokes out, “Simon?”

I squeeze him tighter. “I’m right here. Are you back with me?” 

He nods, but gasps, “Can’t breathe.”

I pull back just enough that he can see my face. “My therapist also taught me breathing exercises. Can you try breathing with me?”

He nods, and I take an exaggerated breath in through my mouth, counting to four, then exhaling for another count of four. I repeat it, watching Baz follow my lead. His breaths are shaky and gasping at first, but after a few cycles, they start to even out. 

“Please don’t make me talk about it,” he says, clinging to me. His body is still shaking, and his voice is weak.

He can’t avoid our conversation from earlier, or the new conversation about this flashback and whether it’s happened before and how to keep it from happening again, forever, but now isn’t the time. Not when adrenaline is still coursing through him and whatever memory he just relived is fresh in his mind.

“Okay.” I trace my finger along his sharp cheekbones and defined jawline. “Want to watch Love Island?”

He smirks, and part of me feels like the world is back in its proper order. “Not only do you insist on watching this heteronormative garbage, but you insist on doing it when it’s not even in season.”

“I _told_ you, the girls in my biology class were talking about it and I wanted to know what the fuss was.” I poke him in the ribs, and he laughs.

“So you watch one episode, not a series and a half.”

“You watched all of that with me though, and you’ve got to admit, you’re invested now.”

“Shut up,” he answers, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I grin as if I’ve just won an argument. “Put the next episode on while I get some water.”

**Baz**

I think Simon suggested this show on purpose to give me something to make fun of.

Because he sees how fragile I feel, how one word out of place could set me off again, and he knows exactly what will make me feel strong again, in control.

Simon says it’s a wall I hide behind; that I use clever insults and well timed barbs to avoid admitting how much I care about things and to keep people at arm’s length, to protect myself. I say he should leave the psychobabble with his therapist.

I’m pretty sure I’m just a little bit mean.

Either way, I’m turning on Love Island and preparing to roast the shit out of everyone on it, and the Earth is already starting to feel like it’s rotating on the correct axis again.

Simon returns from the kitchen with two glasses of water and a plate stacked high with toast balanced precariously between his hands. A stick of butter is sliding around the side of the plate, and a jar of jam is secured in his elbow.

“I remembered we haven’t eaten yet,” he explains.

“Like you ever forgot.”

I’m pretty sure food is always one of the top five thoughts on Snow’s mind.

He passes me a glass of water, and I hadn’t even realized I was thirsty, but now that I see it, I realize I’m parched. Between the drinking and crying last night and the crying today (Merlin and Morgana, I’m pathetic), my body’s lost a lot of water. I’m probably dehydrated.

I empty the glass in one gulp and Simon just hands me the second one like that had been his intention all along.

He’s so good, solving problems I didn’t even know I had, taking care of me as if I deserve it.

As if I deserve him.

I don’t.

Snow tucks himself under my arm when I press play and brings the plate to his lap. Between how fast he eats and his mouth breathing, he’s getting crumbs all over my pajamas. I’d usually complain, but I don’t want him to pull away, so I let him continue making a mess.

He’s devoured two thirds of the tower of toast before he notices I haven’t been taking any. He butters a slice and spreads jam over it then hands it to me.

I didn’t think I could eat; my stomach’s been tying itself in knots all morning, but I don’t want to disappoint Snow, so I take a bite. Somehow, it actually helps a little, so I take another, and another, finishing the toast as quickly as Snow has been.

For the remainder of the breakfast, he hands me a slice for each one he consumes, and by the end of the episode, the plate is empty, and I feel almost normal.

Simon gets up and stretches, and the way his muscles contract when he lifts his arms over his head is so hot it should be illegal. As if spending all my time with a shirtless Simon Snow (he claims it’s easier when he’s at home than having someone spell his shirt on around his wings) isn’t enough, now he’s stretching like _that_.

He grins when he catches me watching him, the git, so obviously pleased at my attention. It’s a good thing Snow doesn’t even know what he’s thinking half the time because when he does, it’s so clear on his face.

“I was gonna get my stuff to study, but if you have another idea…”

I have _many_ other ideas, but I won’t tease him or myself by indulging them for even a second. I could pull him back down to the couch to kiss, but even that is a uniquely pleasurable torture that I’m not prepared for right now.

“Study, Snow,” I tell him. “I’m not going to be the reason you fail your finals.”

He and Bunce have their finals next week, and mine are the week after that. Maybe I should start revising, too, at least figure out the material from the classes I’ve missed.

My computer is already on the coffee table, so I just pull it onto my lap and navigate to my class portal. I start by making a list in my head of all the lectures I still need to watch, but then it gets too long to remember, so I pull up a note on my mobile to make the list there.

When I’m done, there are 25 items written down, but that doesn’t include all the material I was present for, but didn’t pay attention to, or didn’t understand because I’d missed the previous classes.

Fuck.

I wasn’t even this behind when I was kidnapped by numpties and kept in a coffin for six weeks.

Snow has returned and is mumbling through flashcards that are either about history or politics, and I’m staring at my screen with no idea where to begin.

“Snow?” I nudge his wing gently.

“Hmm.”

“Want me to quiz you?”

**Simon**

Baz goes for a walk when it’s time for my session with my therapist. I’ve never asked him to, but I’m usually grateful for the privacy.

Today, I wish he hadn’t left. I want him nearby so I know he’s okay.

It’s not like I think he’s going to off himself on a casual stroll through London. But he’s seemed so fragile since his flashback yesterday, meaner than usual (or at least usual in the almost year we’ve been dating), and the meanness so thin and disingenuous, so clearly a facade.

When Penny made it home from the library last night with ink marks on her cheek like she’d fallen asleep midway through revising, he said, “Bunce, I was starting to get my hopes up that you were gone for good.”

Only, he’d trailed off at the end and it came across so uncertain that even Penelope looked concerned rather than insulted or amused, which were here standard responses when Baz said something cruel.

She’d looked at me questioningly, and I’d shaken my head, indicating for her not to press.

And now, he’s fragile and alone, probably thinking all sorts of dangerous thoughts, and I want him back here, now.

I try not to think about it and accept my therapist's Skype call.

“Simon,” she says. “How are you doing today?”

I’ve only ever seen Dr. Karr through a screen, but I can tell she’s a small woman, no taller than 5’3 with a slight, almost pixie-eque frame. She’s got that quality that makes her seem ageless, but I think she’s actually about 35 years old because her hair is deep brown with no traces of gray.

“I’m worried about Baz,” I answer. I don’t let her ask another question before saying, in what feels like one breath, “On Friday, Baz told me it would be better if he was dead, and that he hadn’t been feeding, and then I brought it up yesterday, but his mom came up, and he had some kind of flashback, and now he’s going on a walk to give me privacy and I don’t know if he’s alright.”

“Do you believe he’s in immediate danger?”

I try to take a deep breath, but just thinking about Baz has my heart racing. “No. No. I don’t think he’d actually, like, do something…” I can’t even let myself say the words out loud. “Not unless something big happened to trigger him.”

“Which is unlikely to happen in the next hour.” 

“Yeah,” I agree.

“What has you so worked up right now, then?”

I tug at my curls and growl because _I don’t know._ Only, this is Dr. Karr, and she’s always telling me to really consider what I’m thinking, and maybe I do know.

“It’s just, like, _that_ ,” I still can’t say it “isn’t the only problem with all this. Baz is hurting, probably, right now. And I should be helping him.”

She smiles knowingly in a way that used to infuriate me, but that I’ve come to appreciate over time. “Instead of talking to me? Instead of helping yourself?”

She doesn’t get it, doesn’t get how unfair the world has been to Baz. His mom died to keep herself from becoming the exact thing that he is, and the only other person in the world like him is living in a grungy basement with nothing. He’s been attacked and threatened over and over, and used as a pawn by his own family, and been told repeatedly to hide who he is and to be ashamed of it.

After all that, it’s no wonder he won’t let anyone get close to him.

Except, he let me in. Maybe he was drunk when he did it, but he trusted me and let me see behind his walls, and that means I can help him. And I think I might be the only one who can.

“I love him,” I say.

“It’s not your job to save everybody,” she says. I’m about to argue that this about wanting to, not being obligated, but she keeps going, “And even when you want to save somebody, you might not be able to. It might be above what you’re capable of. Especially if you don’t have yourself in order first.”

“I can’t think about this right now,” I say honestly, barely processing her words. “I need to find Baz.”

She’s so understanding that she just nods and says, “Try to give some thought to what I’ve just said when you can. And feel free to remind Baz that I’m more than willing to talk to him or refer him to one of my colleagues. We’ll talk more the same time next week.”

I nod and hang up.

_Session ended early. Feel free to come home._ I send a text to Baz.

_It’s only been fifteen minutes. Is everything all right?_

I don’t know what to say to that. If I tell Baz it’s because I was too worried about him to talk about anything else, he’s just going to shut down. Or worse, he’s going to hate himself even more for worrying me.

_Just wasn’t much to talk about._

It’s a weak attempt at a lie, and Baz is going to see right through it.

_Snow._

Three dots appear to indicate he’s typing out more, but to challenge me, he’s going to have to acknowledge everything that’s happened this weekend, and I don’t think he’ll do it.

_I’m picking up Indian food. We can talk after dinner._

I guess that even after a year, Baz can still surprise me.

**Baz**

Bloody Snow, cutting his therapy short because he doesn’t want me walking around alone.

I’m not going to hang myself on some tree along my evening stroll.

I wonder if hanging would even kill a vampire.

He didn’t admit that was his reason for texting me not twenty minutes after I left the flat, but “Just wasn’t much to talk about” isn’t exactly convincing. Not when Snow hasn’t missed or cut short a single Skype session in the year since he’s started therapy.

Not after everything that’s happened this weekend.

He’s basically refused to let me out of his sight since Friday night, and I wasn’t going to mention the extra attention, not when doing so would mean acknowledging the reason for the extra attention which I so desperately do not want to talk about.

I got drunk and told Simon too much.

Then, instead of reassuring him like I should have, I had some kind of episode (Simon keeps calling it a flashback).

I knew he was worried about me, but now he’s _very worried_ , and I still don’t have the energy to find the right way to convince him he doesn’t need to be.

He doesn’t.

Or at least. He shouldn’t.

Shouldn’t waste his time trying to save someone who was dead before he even met them. Shouldn’t stress over the feelings of someone who’s only going to hurt him in the end anyway.

I have to find the words to convince him now, though, because he cancelled fucking therapy, and I’m not going to let him get hurt because I’m messed up. He doesn’t deserve that.

My order is ready, but I’m not. I grab it from the counter and head into the darkening street. I’m about to turn left and make my way back to Simon’s flat, but I notice a pub on the opposite corner.

That’s exactly what I need: liquid courage.

I only intend to have a drink or two to put off talking to Simon and give myself a little more time to figure out what to say, but even after I’ve lost count of how much I’ve had to drink, I’m not sure how to have this conversation.

The food is still warm, and I still feel mostly in control, so I order one last shot and head home. The walk is less than a kilometer, but I realize as I go that I’ve severely miscalculated. Alcohol takes time to hit the bloodstream.

I’m feeling significantly _not_ in control by the time I reach the door and fumble for my key. It takes five minutes and all my concentration to get it into the lock and turned properly.

I deposit the bag of takeaway on the table and deposit myself on the couch.

“You’re drunk,” Simon says, voice full of pity.

I don’t want Simon to feel that way about me, so I try to sit up straighter and compose myself.

“Not too drunk.”

“Baz, if I can tell that you’re drunk, then you’re too drunk. When did you even have time to drink? It’s only been 45 minutes since you left.”

I shrug. “There was a pub next to the restaurant, and I just stopped in briefly. I was trying to collect my thoughts.”

I think I’m doing a remarkably good job of acting sober, but Simon is still frowning, so I’m probably slurring more than I realize.

“The food is on the table,” I add, because if anything will cheer Simon up, it’s food.

“I’m not hungry.”

That’s how I know I’ve fucked up.

Without realizing I was doing it, I’ve curled into Simon’s side. (Maybe that’s how he knows I’m drunk; I can be a very cuddly drunk). Now I straighten up to meet his eyes.

“I don’t like that you worry about me,” I say because it’s the first thought that pops into my head.

Simon laughs, a little bitterly even, and Crowley, he’s been spending too much time with me to learn how to laugh like that. His laugh is supposed to be like the rest of him, like sunshine and kindness and love all wrapped into a person.

“How am I supposed to not worry? You’re miserable.”

I can’t lie, not when I’m in this state, and not to Simon who sees right through me always. “Yeah, but you shouldn’t worry about it.”

I reach out to smooth the furrow in his brow, but it’s incredibly persistent.

“You worry when I’m not happy, though.”

Because he’s worth it.

“Because you’re worth it.”

His arms wrap around me and squeeze so tightly it’s like he doesn’t think he can get me close enough. I don’t mind though; I don’t think I could ever be close enough to Simon.

“I think you’re worth it,” he whispers. 

The worst part is that he does.

“And I don’t know how to convince you I’m right.” His breath hitches, and he’s crying. I’m wrapped too securely in his embrace to see the tears on his face, but I feel them falling, wet against my hair, and his body is shaking in my arms as he keeps talking. “I hate everyone that’s ever convinced you that you’re not _everything_ , and I hate that I used to be one of them. You deserve the world, Baz, and I’m never going to stop trying to prove that to you.

Usually, I pretend to believe Simon when he says nice things like this, and I want to tonight, but the words hit like sunlight, burning.

“No.” I pull away from Simon who releases his grip as soon as I move to separate myself. I start pacing the small room.

“You’re gonna get hurt,” I say. “ _I’m_ going to hurt you. You’re here telling me I deserve things, but I’m a monster and - and a disaster, and you’re going to be the one who suffers because you’re too thick to stay away.”

“You haven’t hurt me yet.” His voice is so quiet it nearly doesn’t reach me, but when it does, his words only propel me on.

“You called off therapy early today because you were worried about me because I can’t even get it together enough to pretend to be happy.”

Simon sighs and scrubs his hand over his face. “It’s one week, Baz. And I’m in a good place. I’ve been thinking about switching over to sessions every other week, actually.”

“And I’m ruining your time at parties because you’re taking care of me. I’ve been giving you blue balls for months because I can’t get too turned on without wanting to _bite_ you. I’m rude to all your friends. Someday, I’m going to be kicked out of the world of mages, and if you stick with me, you’ll be out too, like completely out. And the Normal world still isn’t really into two boys being together, so people are going to be worse to you because you’re with me. Don’t you want more than that? _I_ want more than that for you.”

I pause to catch my breath, which Simon takes as an invitation to argue.

“I’m messed up too, remember. Or did you forget that time I stole all the magic from your family’s estate and forced the six of them into a tiny hunting lodge in Oxford. Did you forget the months I was afraid to leave Penny’s house and barely talked to anyone, including you? Did you forget that I’m a Normal with a tail and wings that don’t even work and you have to spell me into my clothes every morning?”

“And yet, you’re still good,” I tell him. Somehow, despite everything that could’ve made Simon bitter and angry at the universe that disappointed him time and again, he ended up kinder and lovelier than ever.

“So do you want to break up, then? Save me from your evil vampire self?”

My blood turns to ice at the thought.

I need Simon.

But I’m bad for Simon.

But I need him.

“No!” It comes out a sob, and somehow I’m on the couch, in Simon’s arms, crying into his shoulder. “Never. I love you so much. I should, but I’m so weak. I could never leave.”

He sighs, and his voice is watery when he says, “Baz, please, just consider talking to my therapist. Or one of the other ones who specializes in magic.”

I’ve disappointed Simon enough tonight.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for PTSD flashback  
> CW for talk of suicide  
> CW for drinking
> 
> Please leave a kudos if you enjoyed and comment if you have any thoughts or feelings or ideas. I live for external validation


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in end notes

**Baz**

“I assume Snow’s told you all about me,” I say, feeling ridiculous for talking to a stranger who’s currently thousands of kilometers away through a grainy laptop camera.

“I’d like to hear it from you, though.”

Her tone is even and probably meant to be soothing, but it mostly annoys me.

“Well, first I’m a vampire, in case you didn’t know. So if you require your clients to have souls…”

She writes something down and says, “I work with all kinds of magickal beings. Why don’t you tell me a bit about why you’re seeking therapy?”

“Simon asked me to.”

“Do you know why Simon thought you could benefit from therapy?”

I feel like I’m fighting every instinct telling her anything at all, and I wrack my brain for the least compromising answer. I choose my words carefully when I say, “Simon is worried that I’m not happy.”

“Is he right? Are you not happy?”

She’s being so patient, accepting all my half answers and following with questions that are just short of prying, and I almost wish she wasn’t, that she was pushing hard enough that I had something to push back against. As it is, all I can do is be honest.

“I’m not happy, but he’s not right to worry.”

She makes another note.

“What’s keeping you from happiness, Basilton?” She asks, and there are far too many answers to that question.

But really, there’s only one that matters.

“I’m a vampire.”

She asks more questions, like if I remember when I first started being miserable (I tell her it was around when the bloodlust came on because it would be too pitiful to say I can’t remember feeling any differently since I was at least five), and how my relationship with my family is (I tell her I live with my Aunt Fiona and don’t mention the rest of them).

Then she moves on to things that sound like they’re from questionnaires.

“Have you ever experienced visual, sensory, or emotional flashbacks to certain upsetting events.”

“Yes.”

“More than once?”

“Yes.”

“How frequently?”

“Maybe once a month. More when I was at Watford.”

Simon was struggling so much after everything last Christmas that I didn’t tell him that, that sometimes I would see the unrepaired windows of the White Chapel and be teleported back there, unable to breathe through the thickness of his magic and seeing him collapse the moment the Humdrum took everything, helpless to do anything but watch.

Or that when I woke in the darkness of our room without him breathing loudly in the other bed, I would suddenly be trapped in a coffin and starving, halfway to fully dead, and wishing I could get to other half. 

That instead of seeking his curly mop of hair, I would see my mother in the hallways that she used to command, always with the look on her face that she was losing everything.

That Watford was the place _I_ lost everything (my mother, my soul), and Simon had been the only thing making it bearable all those years. Even when I thought I hated him (and he definitely hated me), he made me feel safe.

“Do you ever have nightmares relating to certain upsetting events.”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Every night.”

“Since?”

“Since I was five.”

I used to cry out in my sleep, wake up screaming, but after long enough of no one coming, even unconscious, I didn’t bother.

She runs through some questions about rating certain things based on how frequently I feel them or how intensely, and I see her checking boxes on some kind of worksheet.

“Have you ever considered killing yourself?”

I figured this would come up, but I was starting to hope, with how close to the end of the hour we’re getting, that it wouldn’t.

“I’m already dead, aren’t I?” I try, in case that’s answer enough.

She rolls her eyes, and I like that better than the endless understanding and kindness that’s been in them this whole time. “You know what I mean.”

I avoid looking into the camera when I say, “sometimes.”

“How seriously do you consider it?”

I don’t know how to answer that. Killing myself, or letting something kill me, has always felt a bit inevitable, so of course I’ve considered it seriously, but always with the caveat of _not yet_. Not while Simon will still have me. Not while I still have a foot in the world of mages.

I shrug.

“Do you have a plan?”

I’ve always figured I’ll continue my mother’s legacy and light myself on fire. I shrug again.

“Have you ever attempted to take your own life?”

I freeze. I haven’t been lying; I promised Simon I wouldn’t, that I’d give this therapy thing a proper try.

I run through all the justifications I’ve given Simon about that day in the woods, that I wasn’t direct about it, set the fire on the trees, not myself. That I knew he’d stop me. That it was a temper tantrum, not a suicide attempt.

But it wasn’t.

I went into those woods wanting to, and intending to die.

I nod painfully slowly and say in a voice that barely sounds like my own, “once.”

“What keeps you from doing it again?”

I’ve heard all the advice about not basing your happiness on another person, so I hate it when I have to say, “Simon.”

She doesn’t seem to judge me though, just nods. “We can work on building a safety plan next week for in case something changes. Will you be safe until then?”

It feels ridiculous that some stranger is worried about my safety.

“Made it this far,” I scoff.

“I need a yes, Basilton.”

“Yes, I won’t kill myself this week.” I say.

When I hang up, I’m exhausted. I just want to curl up under the blankets where nothing can reach me, and I especially want Simon’s arms around me while I do it.

_My appointment’s over._

I know he’s in a review session for his chemistry final, so I’m surprised when his response is almost immediate.

_How are you feeling?_

As soon as the text comes through, there are dots to show he’s still typing. It’s about thirty seconds until the next message appears.

_I remember the first session for me was really hard because she wanted me to talk about all this horrible stuff at once and I didn’t know how to yet, so it’s normal if you’re not great right now._

Crowley, he’s so earnest I want to cringe, but his words are also reassuring.

_Just tired._ I answer though I know that’s not what Simon’s looking for. Even if I wanted to get into emotions and all that like Simon wants me to, I don’t think I could come up with much. I’m tired, plain and simple. I’ve been fighting my instincts for the last hour, not only to think about the things I’ve pressed deep into my subconscious for years, but to tell them to a total stranger, and there’s no energy left for feelings.

_Want to be alone? Or can I come home?_

If he’d asked if I wanted him to come home, I would’ve insisted he pay attention to his class, told him not to sacrifice his education for me, but that’s not what he’s asked.

I should still tell him not to come.

But I’m weak.

_Come home._

**Simon**

I was in a foster home once that had a mean little terrier dog. (They treated it better than me, but only marginally.) It would snarl when you got too close to it and growl when it was hungry or in pain from any of the various injuries my foster parent’s little kids inflicted on it. After a while, it warmed up to me, let me pet it and slept at the end of my bed, but when I approached too quickly or spoke too loudly, it would still bare its teeth.

Except one day it didn’t. I came home from school, and it was lying by the door with its head on its paws like it was waiting, and it was silent when I opened the door, quietly followed me to my bedroom where I deposited my backpack and shoes and watched placidly as I started my homework. I thought I’d finally succeeded in getting it to trust me.

The next day it died from stomach cancer.

It hadn’t been aggressive because it was in too much pain to be, and it had given up fighting it.

That’s what Baz reminds me of when I get home to find him curled in the smallest ball a man of his stature could possibly be in, still on top of the duvet like he couldn’t be bothered to climb under it.

“I’m home,” I say, and he barely looks up.

I pull off my jacket, freeing my wings. (When I don’t have someone to spell my clothing on me, I have to fold them shut like a fan and squeeze them into whatever I’m wearing, which is never comfortable).

I climb into bed to face Baz, about to ask if I can hold him, but before I get the chance, he’s crawling into my arms, resting his head on my chest and keeping his knees up tight, pressing them into my belly. It’s far from the optimal cuddling position, but I just pull him in closer.

I know he won’t accept it if I say it out loud, so I try to communicate with just my grip how far I’ll go to take care of him.

**Baz**

It is Friday, and I have made it through exactly 2 of my 25 missed lectures.

It’s 9:00PM on a Friday, and rather than celebrating with Simon at Dan’s end of term party, I’m in a review session for Introduction to Macroeconomics, which I’m hoping will summarize the term effectively enough for me to pass the final on Monday. 

So far, I’m not optimistic.

It should worry me how few of the words I’ve written down tonight I actually understand, but I think I’m past caring. I’ve failed enough in life as it is; might as well add a few university classes to the mix.

I write some more words down that sound like gibberish.

I wonder if anyone’s ever made a spell out of economics.

**Simon**

I consider for the 30th time texting Agatha not to bother picking me up today, to reschedule for next week when Baz will be with his family in Oxford already, but the vampire in question glares daggers at me like he knows what I’m thinking and is angry at just the consideration.

I put the phone down, but it’s only a minute before I pick it back up and consider a 31st time.

Baz sighs.

“Snow, we’ve already talked about this. I have finals all next week. You’ll just be bored here.”

“I can help you study.”

“You haven’t seen Wellbelove in over a year. You see me every day.”

He’s right.

Things with me and Agatha went a little upside down after everything with the Mage. I think she probably blames me for everything that happened, though she’s too kind to say it.

She should’ve been a normal teenager, and instead, she was nearly killed because of me. I know I blame myself.

We didn’t talk at all for months.

Then, in October, a Facebook friend request popped up from her. (My chemistry study group insisted Facebook Messenger was the best way to communicate, so I’d made an account just for that, but I’ve started to use it more since then).

A few days later, I saw that she’d posted a photo (originally from Instagram) of a dog at the beach at sunset, and I liked it.

I made a status about trying to cook pizza, and she reacted it with the laughing emoji.

Over the next month, we built all the way to actually commenting and replying, and even that was so much more than I’d ever hoped for.

Then for Halloween, I posted a picture of Baz and me dressed in matching vampire costumes (I had thought it might be in poor taste, but he insisted it was hilarious, and refused to dress as anything else for Halloween ever again) with the caption (as suggested by a girl in my maths class) _Officially that couple who wears couples costumes._

I’d woken the first of November with a splitting headache and my phone ringing in my ear. I answered without seeing who was calling just to make the sound stop.

“Holy shit, Simon,” Agatha said.

“Huh?” I’ve never claimed to be eloquent, even when not dealing with one of the worst hangovers of my life, and I hadn’t been able to understand why she was calling me after so long without any contact, and what exactly she was referring to.

“You’re dating Baz. Oh my god, everything makes so much sense!”

I wanted to be grateful for her call because I really did miss talking to Agatha, but her voice through the phone was tinny and high pitched, and it was making my stomach roll alarmingly.

“Oh, yeah, that. Look, Agatha, can I call you back in an hour. I’m really hungover, and I don’t think you want to hear me throw up.”

She laughed at that, and that sound was enough for me to throw the phone on the bed and make a dash for the toilet. When I returned, Baz had picked up the phone and was seemingly making fun of me through it.

“If this was last year, I’d be jealous,” I told him.

“Maybe you still should be. Wellbelove’s quite charming; I think she’s turning me straight as we speak.”

After that, we started talking for real, and two weeks ago, she invited me to stay with her for Christmas. I’d agreed as soon as I knew it wouldn’t be an imposition. I mean, what else was I supposed to do, go to Oxford with Baz? Crowd into Penny’s home? Stay at the flat by myself?

And I miss Agatha, I really do. I’m excited to see her again.

But leaving Baz right now feels like a betrayal. He needs me.

“But-“ I start to argue.

“Bunce is here another week, and we both know I prefer her company anyway.”

I push my phone deep into the cushion where it won’t tempt me to postpone my trip. Baz will be fine.

Probably.

I dig it back out.

**Baz**

When I check the time, I realize it’s half two. Bunce hooked her laptop up to the TV just before lunch, and we’ve been watching Vine compilations ever since. It’s supposed to give us some ideas for creating spells, since these videos are so often played and quoted, and Bunce did bring a notebook and pen to the couch, but even she’s been laughing too hard to write anything down.

I’ve been having a surprisingly good time myself. I thought it would be weird without Simon, but he’s been with the Wellbeloves for four days now, and it’s alright.

Penelope and I have been working on spellcrafting whenever I’m not in an exam.

Which reminds me, it’s half two, and my calculus exam was supposed to start at two.

Too late now, I suppose.

“Why are you writing that down? What could **I smell like beef** even do?” I ask, but apparently something in my tone is humorous because Penelope starts laughing again, too hard to answer.

I roll my eyes and work very hard not to smile. “I was thinking **I’m in my mum’s car** might have a bit more potential.”

She chokes out “ **It’s an avocado… thanks** ”

Then, we both freeze.

On the table in front of us, next to our empty lunch plates, is an avocado.

I raise an eyebrow and point my wand, saying, “ **It’s an avocado… thanks**.”

There’s a second avocado beside the first, and that sets us both off laughing. I don’t remember laughing this much ever, the joy of creating a spell and the ridiculousness that it’s this bubbling up through me and making me feel lighter than air.

“I have to tell Agatha,” Penelope says, grinning. “I think she might be willing to break her no-magic thing for this.”

“Shall I make us a snack while you call?” I look pointedly at the avocados, which sends us into another fit of hysterics. When we’ve finally calmed, she nods, and I head to the kitchen to produce some avocado toast while I hear her Skype Agatha.

By the time I’ve returned to the sitting room, Simon and Wellbelove are together on the grainy screen.

“Did Bunce tell you what we did?” I ask. “We made a spell to summon avocados based on a Vine.” I add a little contempt to my tone, like I’m above such frivolous endeavours, though Snow knows me well enough by now to see through it.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I remember that I’m not supposed to be talking about this with Simon. I look to see if there’s any reaction to my mentioning magic, but he’s just grinning.

“Have you tried **Road Work Ahead** yet?” He asks cheekily. 

Bunce writes that down. “That’s a good idea actually.”

Agatha giggles. “Of course you hear Simon’s joke and take it seriously.

“Of course Snow references the most _dad joke_ Vine there is,” I shoot back.

A dark look crosses Snow’s face, and I wonder for a moment if I’ve actually managed to offend him with that. But Simon gets flustered when I’m particularly insulting, not like this. This is his, well his _concerned about Baz_ face.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in an exam?” He asks, and oh, right, that’s a good explanation for the face.

Everyone looks at me, and I school my expression into complete neutrality, with just the slightest hint of coolness to try and deter anyone from inquiring further.

“No,” I say.

“You are. You texted me this morning that you were.”

His voice is getting all shrill and upset, and I _really_ don’t want to be having this conversation, and _especially_ don’t want to be having this conversation in front of Bunce and Wellbelove.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“You skipped your exam and I don’t need to worry about it.”

Three expressions of pity are trained on me, and I can’t take it, feel my body tensing in rage. I was having a good day for once, and of course it had to come crashing down like this.

“I’m sorry if I lost track of time doing something that’s actually interesting and missed a bloody calculus test. We can’t all be perfect chosen ones who are even good at _not_ having magic, okay?”

It used to be so easy to rile Snow up; even a tiny withering look would have him picking a fight with me, but now he just sighs. That’s not right. I want to fight.

“No, don’t go all _poor Baz_ on me. I said something hurtful and horrible, so yell at me like I deserve. Say something back.”

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Snow replies, all too calmly. I want to punch the screen.

“I’m hanging up now before Baz says something he regrets,” Bunce says, closing her computer before Simon or I can argue.

When she turns to me, her expression is calm, but the scary type, like when my father would catch me causing trouble when I was young.

“Simon’s your boyfriend, not your punching bag,” she says.

I feel a growl building in my chest, and I’m clearly spending a lot of time with Simon for that to be my response to anger.

Penelope continues, “He’s trying to help you, and I get that you think you don’t deserve help or whatever BS like that, but that doesn’t give you the right to hurt him for caring.”

“I know,” I hiss.

I’m used to anger feeling hot, but right now it’s so cold, like ice in my chest, numbing me completely.

“Good,” she says and leans back into the couch cushions. “So you missed a final today?”

I copy her posture and try to absorb some of the casualness she’s exuding, try to shift my mood as easily as she did. It feels forced and a little ridiculous, but I no longer want to hit something, so it seems like a win. “I wouldn't have passed anyway. Would’ve needed a 90, and my highest assignment grade so far was a 72, so it really wasn’t going to happen.”

“Your other classes too?”

“Could’ve passed my macroeconomics one based on my grade so far, but the test was Monday, and I definitely failed it. Microeconomics and calculus were guaranteed fails already, and I might pass history. I’ve got that one tomorrow.” Before she can speak, I add, “I don’t need your pity.”

“No pity here. Just, you know that means they’re going to ask you to take time off?”

I’ve been actively _not_ thinking about that inevitability, but I nod. My advisor already warned me when I met with her on Tuesday.

She explained that usually the first academic ineligibility would result in probation, but that the extent of my failure (she phrased it more kindly, but I knew what she meant) and the fact that it was in my first term suggested that I was not prepared for university and that I would likely have to take a semester off to become prepared.

“We’ll figure something out, then,” Penelope says.

“Can you not tell Simon about this for now?” I don’t add that he’s worried enough as it is, though I suppose she already knows.

She looks like she doesn’t want to agree, but she does anyway, and then she resumes the Vine compilation we were watching and picks up her avocado toast.

**Simon**

“I thought you were obsessed with Baz in school, but this is a whole new level,” Agatha laughs.

I don’t think it’s particularly funny. I should be with Baz; he clearly needs me, and instead I’m baking sugar cookies like everything is fine. He texted to apologize about the fight, but that’s all. Nothing about why he missed his final or if he’s going to be making it up or if he’s going to fail, and how he’s handling it if he is going to fail.

_Baz is fine. We’re literally playing scrabble and then going to bed, so stop ignoring Agatha._ A text from Penny lights up my screen, and it’s not a message from Baz, but it’s enough to have me smiling sheepishly up at Agatha.

“Sorry,” I say. “Baz is just having a bit of a hard time lately, and I don’t like leaving him alone.”

“He’s hanging out with Penelope, though, right? So you’re not leaving him alone.”

“Yeah, she just reminded me of that.”

Agatha hands me a bowl of cookie dough to start rolling into balls and laying out on the baking tray. She insists baking is an essential part of getting into the Christmas spirit. I think the eating part is what’s really important, but when I tell her that, she just flicks a handful of flour at me.

I eat a spoonful of cookie dough in revenge, and she rolls her eyes.

By the time I’m making my way to the guest room, which Mr. Wellbelove has repeatedly offered to make my room officially, I’ve consumed an entire tray of sugar cookies and am feeling full and content, and thoroughly enveloped in the Christmas spirit.

The next few days are spent in a rush of last minute shopping for gifts and decorating every inch of the house. My first Christmas with the Wellbeloves, when I was 11, Agatha taught me **Deck the Halls** , and we used it every year after, but it seems like out of respect for me (I really don’t mind other people using magic around me, but no one believes me when I say it), she’s elected to put up garlands and lights the old fashioned way.

On Saturday, Penny joins us for a gift exchange and movie marathon before she goes home to her own family.

“Do you think I could just stay here with you guys?” She whines as soon as she’s in the door. “There are so many people at my house, and my parents gave Pip my room, so now I have to share with Priya.”

“Didn’t you only go in for a few minutes to drop of your bags?” Agatha asks.

“A few minutes too many.”  


“So how’s Baz been?” I ask when she’s sitting down at one of the kitchen stools. Agatha rolls her eyes and goes to take dinner out of the oven.

I’d thought the baking was just a holiday thing, but apparently living on her own in California has taught Agatha to like cooking. Yesterday, she made us ramen from scratch, and tonight, she’s making a casserole.

“The same as he always is” Penelope says, a little exasperated, but also resigned, like she was expecting me to ask. “You talk to him every day, you should know.”

  
  
“But, like, is he eating? How did his finals go? Did he seem nervous about spending time with his family, or excited?”

“He seemed like Baz. In case you hadn’t realized, your boyfriend isn’t exactly one for talking about his feelings.”

She’s right, but it doesn’t seem like enough.

Baz has been carefully steering all our conversations away from anything serious, and so while I now know the entire plot of the first Twilight movie (Baz thinks vampires in pop culture are hilarious), I don’t know anything about if Baz is okay.

I know I’ve been driving Agatha mad with all my talking about it.

“Dinner,” Agatha interrupts, putting the steaming dish down in front of us. “And no more boyfriend talk until after presents at least.”

I manage not to bring Baz up again as we eat, if only by texting him, _Make it to Oxford alright?_ Then I check my phone every thirty seconds until his reply comes through that he has.

Exchanging gifts serves as enough distraction for the rest of the evening that I only even think about Baz every few minutes instead of constantly.

Agatha has brought back I heart LA t-shirts for Penelope and me. She claims they’re supposed to be ironic, but I don’t believe it. Agatha glows now like she never used to, and I know that she really does love LA. I plan to wear my shirt with pride, because if LA makes Agatha happy, then I really do love it.

Penny gives me a coffee pot that she’s enchanted to start brewing coffee as soon as I wake up. She jokes it’s a gift for herself, so she doesn’t have to deal with “grumpy pre-coffee morning Simon” anymore. I’m grateful nonetheless.

She and I bought our gifts for Agatha together, and Agatha bursts out laughing when she sees them, a dog collar and sundress with a matching pattern.

“I better see those displayed on your Instagram when you’re back in America,” Penny adds.

I didn’t realize how scared I was of this whole get together until Agatha drives off to bring Penelope home and I feel a wave of relief crash over me. Everything was good. Everything was normal.

Everything was like before.

I never thought it would be. I saw too much last year and lost too much. But all evening, I laughed with my friends, and I felt good. Maybe this means I’m better, that I’ve finally pulled myself together.

That thought sits in the back of my mind and grows stronger the next few days as Christmas approaches and the halls of the Wellbeloves’ house are filled with cheer and carols and the smells of gingerbread and pine. I’ve really truly left the bad things behind me.

Christmas Eve, Agatha’s parents offer us both peppermint schnapps to add to our hot chocolate, and by half nine, we’re tipsy and sleepy, and I decide I might as well go to bed early to speed the way to Christmas morning.

I nearly don’t notice the note on my pillow, though it’s accompanied by the strongest floral scent I’ve ever smelled, so intense that it’s a bit nauseating. I pick it up to see a delicate, curling script written in dark purple ink.

_Simon Snow,_

_I have for you an offer and a favor. On the first day of the new year, find your way into a forest, and I will meet you halfway._

_The Queen_

The words are simultaneously straightforward and make no sense at all.

What queen? The Queen of England? I kind of doubt that.

And find my way into a forest? Any forest? Would a patch of trees be enough?

Most confusing, however, is how whoever sent this just assumes I’ll go. Though I suppose if they’re a queen, they’re probably used to just being listened to.

I need to talk about this with someone.

I need…

Baz.

We’re not too far from Oxford.

I tiptoe into Agatha’s room and shake her awake.

“Can you take me to Baz’s house?” I whisper.

Agatha is a better friend than I deserve because she just throws her silky hair into a bun, slips on her shoes, and grabs her keys.

“I’d tell you what it’s about, but I know you don’t like all the magickal drama,” I tell her when we’re in the car and on the road.

“Thanks for that.”

The radio is only playing Christmas music, and it’s almost creepy against the silence of the night and the empty stretch of road.

Agatha pulls up to the Grimm house, and it’s even smaller than I had imagined. I always figured that for rich people, “Small Hunting Lodge” was a euphemism, but from what I can see, there can’t be more than two bedrooms in this place.

This is my fault.

When I pull myself from my self pity, I realize something even more important: Baz’s car isn’t here.

Maybe he rode with his aunt.

The air is freezing as I make my way to the door, and the door knocker is like ice when I lift it.

Daphne opens the door, and her face flits from confusion to shock to sadness to _guilt_ when she sees me. I know I’m not this household’s favorite after draining the magic from their whole estate, but that doesn’t explain this reaction.

She quickly schools her expression to be kind and welcoming. It’s funny how good at control Baz’s whole family is, and how differently they all use that control.

“Simon, what a surprise. What brings you here?”

“I’m, er, here to see Baz.”

Her eyes flick to her feet as if she’s ashamed, but then she meets my eyes.

“I thought he’d have told you. He’s not here.”

Baz’s father storms up behind her. “What she means is, he’s not _welcome_ here. And neither are you.”

Then he slams the door in my face.

I thought I was confused before I got here.

I’m turning to leave when a small voice calls my name.

“Simon!”

It’s coming from a window toward the side of the house, and I tentatively move toward it until I can make out Mordelia, leaning out of what must be the kids’ bedroom.

When she’s apparently deemed me close enough, she says, “I was waiting up for Father Christmas, but you’ll do.”

“I’ll do what?”

She sighs like I’m too thick to deal with. Mordelia couldn’t look more different from Baz with her soft features, but in that sigh, I see the resemblance.

“I have a letter for Baz. I was going to ask Santa to deliver it, but now you can.” She presses a rolled up piece of parchment into my hand, and I stare at her dumbstruck until she closes the window and turns off her light.

“What happened?” Agatha asks when I climb back in the car.

“I don’t know,” I answer slowly. “Can you bring me back to London?”

As she drives, I explain what happened with Baz’s parents and with Mordelia. I don’t know what’s going on, but even considering the possibilities makes me feel sick. I need to get to Baz.

We try Fiona’s flat first because if he’s there, maybe he’s with her and he’s not alone, but it’s dark, and there are no cars parked out front.

Then, we go home.

Baz’s car is in its usual spot by the curb, and Agatha pulls up behind it.

“Could you wait here?” I ask, throwing the door open before she’s fully stopped. Without waiting for an answer, I unlock the front door and take the steps two at a time.

Baz is on the couch, lying on his side with his knees tucked up and his face against the back cushions, though he jolts at the door opening.

“Simon?” His voice shakes, and his eyes are red, tears still tracking down his face. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the Wellbeloves’?”

I close the short distance between us to throw myself into his arms. It’s a little uncomfortable since he’s still somewhat facing the back of the couch, but I don’t care. Baz is here, and he’s unhappy, but I’m with him now, so we can fix that.

“And you’re supposed to be in Oxford.” A pause. “I looked for you there.”

I feel him freeze.

“You didn’t tell me they kicked you out.”

His voice is hollow as he answers, “I told them that we were dating, and my father didn’t take it well. I think it probably would’ve happened with any boy; he only handled me being gay by not acknowledging it, and this made it real.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“And what would it have changed?”

“Well for one, you wouldn’t be crying alone on Christmas Eve. But that’s done now. C’mon, you’re coming with me and Agatha.”

He pulls back. “I don’t think…”

“What, that they’d want you? Mr. Wellbelove has been bothering me since I got there to have you over. I love you, so they love you. Let’s go.”

Baz grabs his coat, and we head out into the cold night. Agatha doesn’t even look surprised when Baz and I crawl into her backseat, just starts the car and turns toward home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: therapy session, discussion of suicide, homophobic family
> 
> Plot, in my angst? It’s more likely than you think.
> 
> Leave kudos and comments because my ego needs it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in the end note
> 
> There's some smut in this chapter, but I think it's a reasonable level for an M rating. If it's not your thing, just stop reading after the Christmas present scene. You won't miss anything important

**Simon**

Baz falls asleep before we’re out of the city, his head leaning against the window and his shoulders tense even in unconsciousness. Every few minutes, he’ll twitch or flinch, and I’m thinking about shaking him awake from whatever nightmare is obviously plaguing him, but before I get the chance, his eyes open wide in panic.

“Simon?” he asks like he’s not sure it’s really me.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

He nods and I watch as a mask of calm takes over his expression.

“Did you have a nightmare?” I ask like it wasn’t obvious.

His face is blank when he nods.

“I can cast **Sweet Dreams** for you tonight it you want,” Agatha offers from where she’s been silent in the front seat.

Baz smirks. “It’s Christmas Eve, Wellbelove. What about **Visions of Sugarplums**?”

I flash her a guilty look as she laughs heartily. “Simon tried to cast that on me when we were thirteen. I woke up on the couch feeling sick because I’d apparently eaten an entire gingerbread house in my sleep. Never going anywhere near that spell again.”

Back then, I’d been petrified that the Wellbeloves would realize what a mess I was and make me leave, that I’d lose the only family willing to accept me, but it is kind of funny to hear it like that.

“The one you cast on me worked perfectly fine,” I point out. “Had the best dreams of my life.”

Baz nudges my shoulder teasingly. “Of course the best dream of your life would be about a Christmas feast.”

“What can I say? I’m a simple man.”

“Not wrong there,” Baz scoffs.

When we get back to Agatha’s house, I lead Baz to the guest room while Agatha slips into her parents’ room to explain the events of the night and their new house guest. She returns with a few extra pillows and a pair of pajamas for Baz.

“Mum offered to set up the couch for you, but I told her you probably wouldn’t mind sharing with Simon,” she says.

Baz’s cheeks flush like he’s embarrassed she would suggest that, even though it’s true. “She’s going to assume…” he trails off like he can’t bring himself to finish, and Agatha laughs.

“That you’re living in sin?” she finishes for him, giggling, and I feel my own cheeks heat at that.

“Exactly,” he huffs.

She throws the pillow she’s still holding at his head, and though with his vampire reflexes, Baz could easily dodge, he lets it hit, laughing himself as it falls to the floor.

Agatha turns to go, and Baz speaks up before she gets the chance.

“If you were serious about **Sweet Dreams** …”

She faces him and pulls out her wand. “Of course. I’m a little out of practice, so if you’d rather I get my dad-”

“I trust you,” Baz says.

I try not to let on to my surprise. Baz doesn’t trust anybody. Some days, I’m not even sure he trusts me, but here he is, letting Agatha Wellbelove help him.

Even more, I try not to let on to my bitterness, the jealousy roiling in my chest as she whispers calming power into the familiar words.

I obviously know Baz isn’t going to leave me for _Agatha._ For one, she’s a girl. And, well, for two, _she’s not a boy_ . But she can do things for him that I can’t, and I’ve been feeling so whole lately that it comes crashing down on me very suddenly how broken I really am, how _lacking_.

I can’t meet Baz’s eye when Agatha finally closes the door behind her. I didn’t notice what was going on with his family, and I can’t take away his nightmares, and now I can’t even keep it together on Christmas Eve. My whole body used to burn when I was upset, but now it’s just a spot behind my eyes, and I feel a warm tear slip out against my will.

I should be better than this. I should be happy by now.

“What’s wrong Simon?”

I shake my head fiercely and feel another tear fall. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

“Simon.” He pulls me down so I’m sitting beside him on the bed and tangles his fingers with mine. “This spell is going to kick in in about ten minutes, and then I’ll be asleep, so you have until then to tell me what’s wrong.”

“I just should’ve been able to do that spell for you,” I sniffle, and though I squeeze Baz’s hand to try and keep myself from crying for real, more and more tears keep streaming down my face.

He’s the one who’s been hurting, the one who was spending Christmas alone because his family kicked him out, and now I’m making a scene over something so small and stupid, and I hate it. I hate that I can’t calm down.

“Let me get your shirt off while I’m still awake,” Baz sighs and spells my shirt off. I pull my trousers down and climb into bed in just my pants, still crying pathetically.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter as he joins me under the covers.

He strokes my back, but that makes it even worse, knowing that I’m making him take care of me when it’s supposed to go the other way around. I flinch away, and it’s like he’s reading my mind, like he knows exactly why I couldn’t accept his comfort when he leans into my ear and whispers, “Crowley, your hero complex is as big as my self hatred. There’s _nothing_ to apologize for.”

That startles a laugh from me, and it’s enough to break the spiral of my thoughts. 

“We match,” I breathe.

“A lovely matching pair of fuckups,” he agrees.

**Baz**

The sun has just barely risen high enough to peek through the window, and Wellbelove’s voice is far too loud and chipper for this time of the morning, but as she shakes me and Simon awake, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this well rested in my life.

“Happy Christmas!” She says.

Simon grumbles and rolls to hide his head in my shoulder. I wonder when he actually fell asleep last night. When the **Sweet Dreams** kicked in and knocked me out, he seemed far from restful.

“We’ve got a fruit platter for while we open presents and a full breakfast after.” She continues.

“One more hour?” Simon asks hopefully.

“C’mon.” I nudge him away from me and into the light. “If there’s anything worth waking up for, it’s presents and Christmas breakfast.”

“Try saying that on two and a half hours of sleep,” he grumbles, but he sits up and stretches.

I watch as he digs out a pair of pajamas, and it seems a bit odd to get dressed into sleepwear, so I raise one eyebrow.

“Christmas with the Wellbeloves takes place in pajamas,” Simon explains. “Whether or not that’s what you sleep in.”

“Strange,” I tell him.

We enter the sitting room together, where Mr. and Mrs. Wellbelove are already waiting, sat on the couch together in matching pajamas with little reindeer on them. Mrs.Wellbelove’s smile is unexpectedly warm when she looks up at me.

“Basilton, I’m so happy you’re here! This is probably a little less formal than you’re used to, but I promise the dinner party tonight will make up for it.”

“This is great,” I tell her, covering honesty in politeness. “Thank you for having me.”

Agatha and Simon both have towering piles of gifts, though I’m surprised that there’s a sizable number of presents with my name on them too.

“We were going to send them home with Simon,” Mr. Wellbelove tells me. “But it’s more fun this way, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Wellbelove insists we open our presents one at a time, so it’s a slow process as Agatha uncovers multiple things relating to riding horses (she must’ve gotten one out in California) and makeup that’s far more expensive than necessary, Simon gets both FIFA and an Xbox to play it on (as well as a few smaller gifts), and I open a small library’s worth of books as well as a few games that can be played on Simon’s new Xbox.

There are a few magickal gifts included as well, a necklace for Agatha that changes color according to her mood like Normal ones pretend to be able to do, a jumper for Simon that automatically spells itself around his wings when he puts it over his head (and the spell that can get the rest of his clothes to do that), and for me, a miniature football that zooms out of reach whenever I try to touch it.

Finally, I have only one thing left to open. (Simon and Agatha have half their piles left, but I’m not jealous when I already got so much more than I expected to). I unwrap it carefully, expecting another book based on its shape, but instead I find a picture of myself at Watford graduation.

“Tap on the corner like this,” Mrs. Wellbelove suggests, and when I touch the corner, the picture starts talking, and it’s my graduation speech.

“Do it again,” Mr. Wellbelove adds.

I do, and then there’s another voice accompanying mine, and I recognize it though I haven’t heard it in years. It’s the original speech I copied mine from. It’s my mother.

My throat feels tight, and my eyes burn, but I’m not a sentimental crier, so I take deep breaths and try to even out my expression.

“It’s not too soppy is it?” Mr. Wellbelove asks.

I shake my head because I think if I tried to speak, my voice would crack. It’s perfect. I never had old home videos or saved voicemails to bring back memories, haven’t heard her voice since it was reading me a bedtime story, and now it’s right here, ringing clearly through the living room, with mine.

“How?” I manage to ask, even if it comes out scratchy and rough.

“Back in my day, Watford used to give everyone one of these recordings of the valedictorian’s speech as a kind of memento of the year. I guess they stopped because camera phones started to be a thing, but I took my video of your speech and my old recording of your mom’s speech and had someone make this.” Mrs. Wellbelove explains.

“Thank you. Simon, I think it’s your turn to open something,” I say too quickly, directing the attention away so I can have a chance to compose myself.

I realize after I’ve spoken that it’s actually Agatha’s turn based on the direction we’ve been going, but no one bothers to correct me.

When I think the present opening is done and I can hear Simon’s stomach growling from his spot at my feet (I’m pretty sure he put himself there just so I would play with his hair, so of course, I do), Agatha runs to the tree and pulls a small parcel from underneath.

“I have a gift for you too, Baz.” She winks at Simon who laughs knowingly.

I open it to find an “I heart LA” shirt.

“Now you, Simon, and Penny can all match,” she declares.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” I reply as sarcastically as possible. “But I hope you know I’ll never be caught dead in this assault on fashion.”

She smirks at my wording. “So you’ll be wearing it every day, then.”

“Ha. Funny. I no longer regret not buying you anything.”

I turn to her parents. “I’m sorry I didn’t get anything for you either. I intended to, but I don’t have much money to spend. Even Simon’s gift is free this year.”

Simon turns to me with a question in his eyes, and I try to raise my eyebrows as suggestively as possible. I watch as his neck flushes.

“It’s completely alright. You’re kids; you don’t need to be wasting your money on us old folk,” Mr. Wellbelove says.

It’s weird, to be called a kid.

For so long it’s been, “You’re an adult Basilton. It’s time to start carrying on the legacy.”

I like this better.

Mrs. Wellbelove announces it’s finally time for breakfast, and Simon’s sigh of relief is actually audible as we make our way to the dining room.

**Simon**

I’m trying very hard not to think about what Baz’s gift for me might be. I mean, if the look he gave me when I turned to ask is anything to go by, I have an idea, but if I dwell on it too long, my face heats up and my trousers start to feel a bit tight, so I’m doing my best to put it out of my mind.

My best isn’t actually very good. I nearly choke on my eggs at breakfast just watching Baz eat an apple. He’s not even doing it particularly seductively.

It only gets worse throughout the day. Baz, Agatha, and I sit down to watch Love Actually while Mr. and Mrs. Wellbelove get ready for the guests, and I have to excuse myself halfway through to calm down because the way Baz is absentmindedly stroking my thigh is getting me embarrassingly worked up.

As the dinner guests start to trickle in, Baz whispers commentary into my ear, and I can’t even pay attention to the witty insults because of the heat of his breath against my neck and the way his voice seems to be pitched even lower than usual. Every once and a while his lips brush against my earlobe, and I didn’t realize that was such a sensitive spot, but by the third time it happens, I’m struggling not to let out a whine at the contact.

“I should pop out to hunt before too many people get here,” he finally whispers. “I need to be well fed for you gift.”

It’s the first thing he’s said about it since this morning, and I spin to ask him more, but he’s already three quarters of the way to the door.

Baz doesn’t return until just before dinner begins, and when he comes up behind me to let me know he’s back, his skin is warmer than I’ve ever felt. That still puts him several degrees below normal body heat, but it’s nonetheless a welcome sensation. I lean into his chest, and he settles his hand on my hip, drawing small circles with his thumb.

“Baz…” I start to complain.

“I think it’s time for dinner,” he stops me, smirking.

He guides me to the table with a hand at the small of my back, but at the last second, before I sit down, he moves it just a bit lower and _squeezes_.

He’s doing this on purpose. All day, this has been on purpose, the touching and teasing and working me up. I kind of want to hit him.

I really want to shove him up against the wall and kiss him.

I try to act normal during the meal, make small talk with the guests I see every year, but it’s hard when Baz has his hand rested on my knee and a mischievous glint in his eye. It’s even harder when he starts to slowly move it higher.

He still doesn’t eat in front of people, so it seems he’s able to give all his attention to the agonizingly slow motion of his hand up my thigh. By the time the dessert course is out, it’s made it all the way to where my leg meets my hip, and I can feel it’s trajectory changing to move in.

I’ve been on edge all day, and I don’t know how far Baz intends to take this, but I’m pretty sure if his hand even brushes my dick, I’m going to come in my trousers in front of all the Wellbeloves’ guests.

“Baz,” I growl quietly into his ear, ignoring the lava cake that’s just been placed in front of me. “Talk upstairs.”

I don’t listen to how he politely excuses us, the lust hazing my brain so all I can think about is getting my hands on Baz.

I make it up the stairs, though not quite to the guest room before I’m pressing him to the wall and kissing him. It’s harsh and intense, more like fighting with our mouths than kissing, and I only pull away when I need to breathe, keeping my forehead against his and panting my breaths against his cheek.

“Couldn’t even wait for the guests to leave?” he teases, but it’s impossible to be offended when his lips are puffy from kissing and his words come out slightly breathless.

“Shut up,” I mutter and try to silence him with another kiss, but he pushes me away.

“Do you really want to do this in the hallway when there’s a perfectly good room right there?”

He has a point.

I follow him into the guest room where the bed is unmade and our clothes are still littered across the floor since we haven’t had time to put them away.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I hear Baz saying “ **silence is golden**.”

“Is this about my Christmas present?” I ask, moving toward him, the space between us feeling far too large.

He takes a step back, looking nervous all of a sudden, despite his confidence in teasing me all day. I freeze.

“Did I misunder-”

“No. No, you guessed right. It’s just… umm…”

Baz never pauses or stutters, so I know this is important. I stay quiet and let him continue.

“There are just some precautions. Like, here.”

He points his wand at my cross and says, “ **stuck like glue**.”

“Now I can’t rip it off in the heat of the moment,” he adds. I offered to stop wearing it when we got together, but he asked me not to. He says it helps him stay in control. “And umm...you can’t touch me. Or like, you can touch _me_ , but not my…”

“Your dick.” I finish for him. “You can say it. If we’re gonna do _stuff_ , you can say dick.”

He huffs out a breath. “ _Do stuff_ , honestly Snow, you’re no better, and you know it. Yeah, you can’t touch my dick. It’s just already going to be really hard for me to stay in control, so…”

“I get it.”

Then I add, “I love you.”

The nervous line of his lips melts into a soft smile, and I’m so overwhelmed with how this is all for me, how I’m the only one who gets to see Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch so soft and warm, that I can’t help but step into his space and kiss him.

Unlike earlier, there’s nothing hurried to this kiss; it’s slow and deep, the leisurely brushing of lips and sliding of tongues, and I want to sink into it forever, but my body is reminding me there’s even more on the table tonight.

I experimentally grind onto Baz’s thigh where it’s slotted between mine and gasp at the jolt of pleasure it sends through me. He doesn’t protest, so I do it again. Before I can get into a rhythm with it like my body is begging me to, he grabs my arms and stills me.

“Were there more ground rules to go over?” I ask, but his eyes are dark when they meet mine, hungry almost.

He shakes his head and tears my shirt open, sending a few buttons racing across the floor. He runs his hands up my abdomen and across my shoulders, using the motion to slip my shirt off.

“You’re too close. Didn’t want you coming like that. Want you to finish with my hand around you.”

“Baz…” I could call the way I say his name a moan, but it’s really more of a whine.

**Baz**

Maybe I should’ve made Simon being quiet one of the rules. The little whines and gasps he’s making as I undress him are going straight to the heat pooling in my belly which is getting more and more difficult to ignore.

I’m glad I spent all day working Simon up. I only thought of the idea this morning when I saw him watching me over breakfast, but now that I can feel how quickly my control is waning, I’m grateful he’s not going to last long.

I thought for a long time about whether it would be better if he was under me or over, whether I should leave myself free to get away or give Simon that option. I finally settled on being on top myself since Snow would probably be too thick to leave if he needed to.

Now, I push Simon onto the bed and straddle his legs.

He pushes himself into a sitting position and reaches for the first button on my shirt. He undoes it far more carefully than I did his, but by the third button, I’m getting impatient. I push his hands to the side and pull it over my head.

I let him look for a second with that awestruck expression that I can’t believe could ever be directed at me before I’m leaning down to kiss him again.

His hands roam my chest as our tongues explore each others’ mouths, but his cross burns where it touches my bare skin, and that helps ground me a bit, so I don’t get too lost in the sensation.

When I finally reach down to touch him, he moans my name, and I have to take my other hand and wrap it around the cross to keep from grinding into him and relieving some of the pressure building in my groin.

I cast **Slip ‘N Slide** to smooth the glide of my hand as I move it quickly, racing his completion, wanting desperately to catalogue every twitch of his body, the expressions on his face, the sounds that are now coming from him, loud and uninhibited, but tuning them out instead to focus on the burn in my non-dominant hand.

When Simon comes, he chants my name like a prayer, and I close my eyes and take deep breaths so I’m able to stroke him through it.

**Simon**

I’ve wanked before (obviously), but nothing has ever felt as good as that just did, as Baz’s delicate hand and graceful fingers wrapped around me.

I wonder if playing violin makes him better at this.

I try to pull him down so I can rest my head on his chest and maybe take a nap, but he resists.

“I just need to…” he gestures down to the obvious tent in his trousers. “First.”

He stands, presumably to head to the bathroom, but I grab his wrist to stop him.

“Wait, could you do it here? Could I watch?”

He looks at me, first like I’m crazy, then like I’m the best thing to ever happen to him.

“If you want to,” he says, as if he doesn’t believe I would. “I don’t suppose that would be a problem.”

**Baz**

When I’m done, I use **clean as a whistle** on both of us. We’ll still have to shower later, but it’s enough that Simon can wrap himself around me without it being sticky and disgusting.

“What if you wanked first?” He asks. “Do you think you could make it last longer if you’d already got off?”

I wish he hadn’t picked up on why I’d gone so fast. Instead of saying that, I raise an eyebrow and ask, “do you think you could last any longer if you’d just watched me get off?”

He flicks my noise in retaliation. “I’m sure I could with enough practice.”

Enough practice.

We’re going to do this again.

We’re going to do this hundreds of times until I can figure out how to do more. Until I can finish with Simon’s hands on me, maybe even his mouth. Until I can get my mouth on him without my fangs making an appearance.

Until…

“Have you ever thought about whether you’d be top or bottom?” Simon asks, and I nearly choke on my own saliva.

“What?”

“Like, gay blokes are supposed to either prefer-”

“I know what it means, Snow. I was just surprised by the question.”

“So have you thought about it?”

“Have you?”

Simon nods, like he was expecting the deflection. He probably was. I should consider changing up my patterns just to throw him off track a bit with how well he knows me.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I’d quite like to try both.”

I can’t help but picture Simon inside me, or me inside Simon, and the image brings blood to my cheeks.

“Me too,” I agree. Then, because I’m apparently way too open after an orgasm, I say, “I sometimes use my fingers when I wank. Like, in my arse.”

I can actually feel Snow’s dick start to harden where it’s been pressed into the outside of my leg.

“Already?” I ask him teasingly, but there’s no bite. Snow doesn’t even bother being embarrassed, just looks at me hopefully.

“No time like the present to start practicing,” he says cheekily. “I bet you five pounds I can last longer this time.”

“You’re on,” I say, flipping him onto his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of nightmares
> 
> I intended this chapter to be half the normal length with only fluff and a little smut because I'm on vacation, and I promised myself Baz wouldn't cry. Then I started writing, and I couldn't go a whole chapter with no one crying, so I guess Simon had to. Then I still made Baz get emotional, though I kept my promise, and no tears escaped those vampire eyes. Then, it ended up basically normal length.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings in End Notes

**Simon**

Soon Christmas is over, then Boxing Day, and then it’s the lazy period before New Year’s where there’s nothing to do, so everyone just lounges around appreciating the break and trying out all their new gifts.

Baz, Penny, Agatha, and I return to London on December 30 to prepare our New Year’s Eve party. I don’t know who decided our small flat would be the place to celebrate, but since Dan is out of town for the holidays and our uni friends still want to get pissed, somehow Penny and I have ended up hosting.

I thought at first Penelope would refuse on the basis of mess alone, but she rolled her eyes and said, “I can do magic, Simon. I can handle the cleanup.”

And that was that.

Agatha spends two full days cooking and watching me and Baz.

“It’s just so unreal,” she declares hours before the party, setting whatever party food she’s been working on onto a wide plate. “Like, Baz and Simon, roommates to archenemies to  _ boyfriends _ .”

Penelope is giving us odd looks too, like she can sense the change in our relationship, like she knows what Baz and me did. (Well maybe less of sensing and more of accidentally walking in on us yesterday).

Every time I catch her gaze, I feel my skin heat up.

“I think we were friends somewhere in there, too,” I say.

Baz will deny it, but when we were trying to solve his mother’s murder, I know we became friends.

“Allies, at the very least,” Penny adds.

Agatha shakes her head like she’s trying to clear a particularly unusual dream.

“But like, I thought I was into both of you, at some point, and now you’re into each other.”

“You’ve got to be used to it by now,” Baz insists. “You’ve been in close quarters with us for a week.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

“Well can you not be used to it in the car?” Baz asks. “I need to pick up the alcohol, or this is going to be the worst New Year’s Eve party ever.”

As strange as Agatha finds Baz’s and my relationship is how strange I find her and Baz’s growing friendship. It took months of practically living with us for Baz to even occasionally refer to Penny as anything other than Bunce, yet I haven’t heard him utter “Wellbelove” since Christmas.

I guess it makes sense; they can talk about posh things together. He even knows enough about horses to understand what she does with them, and yesterday, I caught the two of them reading a fashion magazine together.

“What, you don’t want my company?” I ask, mock insulted, but also actually a little hurt. I know Baz having other friends is a good thing, but something about it makes me feel a tiny bit sick.

“People are going to start arriving. It would be rude if you weren’t here to welcome them.”

“To a house party?” I ask.

“Gotta keep them entertained until the booze arrives,” Agatha agrees with Baz.

“Don’t take his side! You were my friend first remember.” I feel my voice go squeaky, like it's trying to betray the actual feelings behind my joking outrage.

Agatha gives me a comforting shoulder pat as Baz says, “she speaks the truth, though.”

Then they’re both out the door as Penny and I finish setting out snacks and mixers.

**Baz**

Agatha’s presence balances our group out.

Bunce and Simon are best friends. Simon and I are boyfriends. Bunce and I are mages. No matter how you partition it, with just the three of us, someone is always left out.

With Agatha here, the outsider always ends up with an ally.

When Penelope and I made another Vine spell ( **Road Work Ahead** , actually), Simon had Agatha to roll her eyes in solidarity with him.

When Simon’s and my PDA got too much (even I’m a little embarrassed by us ever since our physical relationship progressed), Agatha was there to drag Penelope to lunch and give us privacy.

When Penelope and Simon are hosting a party with their school friends at the flat I don’t official live in, Agatha gladly runs errands with me, so I don’t have to spend the next hour worrying what my role is supposed to be (Co-host? Boyfriend of the host? Ordinary party-goer?).

It helps that she’s the opposite of political (at least when it comes to magickal politics), so she never saw me as the enemy like Bunce and Snow used to, never saw me as an adversary in the war that never actually happened.

“I named my dog after the Mage’s ex-girlfriend,” Agatha says in the checkout queue as if it’s a casual conversation topic.

Snow and I don’t talk about the Mage. It was a sore subject before everything last year, and now it’s a bloody minefield.

Even after what he did, I’m pretty sure Simon still thinks the Mage was the good guy. I know he still loves him.

Probably as much as I hate the old wanker.

Politics aside, he tried to hurt Simon. He killed my mother (Simon doesn’t know that, can’t ever know that). He could’ve actually saved the world instead of manufacturing an enemy, and I would still never forgive him.

“Hmmm.” I try to seem disinterested, but I feel my heart rate skyrocket.

“Lucy Salisbury. The Bunces think she just up and left him, left magic behind.”

“If I was dating a monster like that, I’d leave magic too,” I hear myself say.

“He tried to kill me,” she says, still in that light, conversational tone. “That goatherd, Ebb, saved me, but he tried.”

“He’s the one who sent the vampires to Watford,” I supply, slapping my hand over my mouth as if it can stop the honesty that’s already escaped. “Don’t tell Simon,” I add hastily.

The liquor store fumes must be getting to me.

Either that, or Agatha’s just really easy to talk to.

“He can’t still idolize him, right?” She whispers.

I shrug. From some of the stories that Simon’s told me about his life before Watford and over the summers, I get the feeling the Mage was somehow good to him by comparison. Being a tool is still better than being nothing, after all.

Changing the topic, though only slightly, I ask, “Would you have given up magic if everything hadn’t happened like it did last year?”

It’s Agatha’s turn to shrug, but her answer seems like something she’s actually thought about a lot.

“I never really cared much for magic like everyone at Watford seemed to. Maybe I wouldn’t have gone so far or shut it out so completely, but I don’t think I could’ve been happy until I left at least a little.”

“So was  **Sweet Dreams** …” I trail off, the question implied.

She waits to answer while I pay for our order with the money Simon collected from everyone who was coming tonight.

“Yeah,” she finally says, picking up one bag and leaving the other three for me. “My first spell since the White Chapel.”

“Why?” My voice comes out too thin on that one syllable. I sound weak, but oddly, it doesn’t bother me much that Agatha is hearing that.

“Simon was talking about you nonstop when he first got to my house. He was so worried, and then we saw your family, and I don’t know… I guess I realized it’s been hard for us all, and I wanted to help.”

She continues when we’re done loading the boot.

“Magic’s never actually been the problem, right? It’s all the fucked up things people do with it. It was good for me, too, being reminded of the good things it can do.”

“Ugh, I’m too sober for all this deep talk.” I nudge her shoulder before I start the car, so she knows that I’m joking. “Let’s get back and resolve that.”

I expect a few people to be milling about already, waiting for the party to actually begin. What I don’t expect is two familiar faces hovering by the door as if they’re not sure whether they should knock.

“Dev? Niall?” I ask, hesitating because I don’t know how to greet them. I haven’t seen either since I left Watford. I figured they’d hate me for betraying the old families by being with Simon, yet here they are, on my front step.

“Baz, it’s been too long!” Niall exclaims, pulling me into an odd sort of half hug that includes patting my back. When he pulls away, Dev rolls his eyes.

“He joined a  _ fraternity _ at his university in America, and now he does this,” Dev explains. “If you invite him up, he’ll probably challenge you to beer pong.”

“Oh, well.” I try to find words, but I know I’m silent too long before I say. “There is a party about to start. I’m sure Simon’s friends wouldn’t mind a game of beer pong.”

Questions still hang awkward in the air, but I ignore them and put my key into the lock.

“You and Simon,” Niall shakes his head, but it’s not critical or judgemental like I was expecting, his tone similar to the one Agatha’s been using the last few days. “I should’ve seen it coming with how obsessed with him you were.”

“ _ I _ saw it,” Dev insists. “I was simply too polite to point it out.”

“You thought I was straight until fifth year,” I reply, and with the teasing and banter, it’s like no time has passed, and maybe I was wrong to think my friends would care that I’m dating the Mage’s Heir.

“It’s not like there were any signs,” Dev tries to defend, and Niall snorts.

“He had a poster of Harry Styles above his desk at home,” Niall laughs.

“You were a Harry Styles fan?” Agatha joins us on the stairs like she was waiting to give me time with the boys before she butted in.

“I was a gay preteen in 2012; of course I was a Harry Styles fan.”

“That explains so much,” Agatha giggles, pointing at the silky floral shirt I have only half buttoned. She’s not wrong.

I prepare to let Simon know that Dev and Niall have shown up as we enter, but apparently he’s heard us talking in the hallway.

“You should’ve seen him when Harry cut his hair. Debated cutting his own for weeks,” He joins in on the teasing, but it’s hard to be offended when he’s putting some kind of fizzy drink in my hand and nestling into my side.

“You know, I’m proud that I’m so stylish and good looking that I remind you of one of the most talented and handsome musicians of our time,” I say, sipping the drink which kind of tastes like a lollipop. “What is this?” I add.

“Some flavored vodka thing Jeremy brought.” Simon shrugs.

“Speaking of drinks,” Agatha says. “I’m going to be the proper host that you clearly aren’t and go set these out.”

She grabs two of the bags that we just brought in and drags them to the kitchen.

“She’s right,” Dev laughs. “Haven’t even greeted us.”

“It’s a house party, not a bloody posh dinner. I offered up my flat; isn’t that enough?” Simon sighs, then says, only half teasing. “Dev and Niall, hello. Welcome. Would you care to take a shot with me?”

Dev rolls his eyes, but Niall bursts out laughing.

“I will!” He says, grinning broadly. “Simon, don’t listen to Dev. He’s just bitter because he’s designated driver this evening. You’re an excellent host.”

I watch as Simon and Niall make their way to the table that Agatha has already finished putting the drinks onto before turning to Dev.

“You guys can crash here if you really want to drink,” I tell him. “You’ll have to fight with Niall for the couch, but…”

As if that was his plan all along, Dev scoffs. “I obviously get the couch.”

I find myself grinning.

**Simon**

I’ve lost count of how much I’ve had to drink somewhere between teaming up with Niall for beer pong and truth-or-dare-or-shot with a group of people from Uni I know by face, though not name.

I haven’t, however, lost count of how much Baz has had to drink because that number is three.

He’s been joining in on the games occasionally, popping around to chat with different groups, dancing with me for the one song he deemed worthy, but mostly he’s been tucked away in a corner laughing with Dev about the very drunk Niall.

In school, I didn’t really believe Baz had any friends. I figured Dev and Niall and anyone else who could manage to be in his presence were just cronies or political allies or tied to him by family obligation, but I think I was wrong. Baz is happier than I’ve seen him in ages.

“Lads, it’s nearly midnight, and you’re clearly not drunk enough for that!” I say, stopping their conversation short. “Have a shot with me and Niall! Oh and Penny and Agatha! A Watford shot!”

Baz chuckles under his breath. “Someone has to be sober enough to hold your hair back when you’re vomiting in the sink tonight.”

“My hair’s short! It needs no holding!” I declare, and maybe that isn’t the best answer. I’m silent for a second, trying to figure out where that statement went wrong and correct it, settling on, “I won’t vomit  _ in the sink _ . That was just the one time.”

I can tell Baz tries to sound cool and chuckle again, but his laugh comes out honest and loud. “I guess we’re convinced.”

I lead them through the party, collecting Niall who’s chatting up Megan from history (I know her name!) and Agatha and Penny who are trying to beat some guy in one of the video games I got for Christmas.

I grab a handle to pour the shots, but Baz quickly takes it from my hand. “Just because we  _ can _ clean up spills doesn’t mean we should have to,” he declares, and he’s probably right. I can barely focus on where the shot glasses are lined up on the kitchen table. I watch as he fills each glass way more gracefully than the task demands.

When we’ve each got a shot in our hand, I raise mine in a toast, but before I can say anything, Baz says, “To Watford?”

It feels wrong, and I can tell from the way he says it, that it does for him too. I shake my head vigorously and correct, “Fuck Watford! The sour cherry scones are great, but not worth the trauma!”

“Fuck Watford!” Baz agrees, and we clink our glasses and swallow down the burning liquid.

After that, the party becomes more and more of a blur. I don’t remember counting down to midnight, but I remember kissing Baz when it strikes. I don’t remember people starting to file out or the music being turned off, but I remember the sitting room empty except for Niall slumped in an armchair and Dev making up the couch like a bed.

I don’t remember throwing up in the kitchen trash bin, but I remember Baz rolling his eyes and leading me to the en suite bathroom.

“You’re an idiot,” Baz says, but his tone is too soft to mean it. I smile at him and he sighs.

Something about that sigh sets off a memory in the back of my mind. An exasperated sigh from a haughty Grimm.

Mordelia.

“I have something for you,” I slur. “I just remembered.”

I stand to get the note from the pocket of the pants that I’m pretty sure are in a pile on the bedroom floor, but the world spins when I try to move.

“I’m sure it can wait,” Baz says, placing a reassuring hand between my wings as I try not to throw up again.

“No, it’s a note from your sister. In the pocket of my pajamas.”

“When did you-” but he pauses, and I know he’s remembering how I tried to find him at his family’s hunting lodge on Christmas Eve. “You’ve had a note from my sister for a week, and you didn’t give it to me?”

The hurt in his tone is enough to sober me almost instantly, but somehow that just makes my head spin more, and I can’t follow him as he storms out because my stomach has chosen this moment to empty itself.

**Baz**

_ Dear Baz, _

_ I heard Mum and Dad fighting over why you can’t come home, and I wanted to tell you it’s stupid. I think Simon is strange, but if you like him, it doesn’t matter, even if he is a boy. I told Dad that, and he grounded me, but I know he’s gonna change his mind. Be careful with fire until then because it would be dumb if you died before I see you again. _

_ Also, can I have your violin while your gone? You can’t really answer, so I’m just gonna take it. _

_ Happy Christmas. _

_ Love, _

_ Mordelia _

I’m not mad at Simon.

I’m not  _ mad  _ at Simon.

I’m not mad at  _ Simon _ .

I face away from him when he finally comes to bed and pretend to be sleeping so I don’t have to talk to him, but I know I’m not doing a very good job because my body is shaking trying to hold back tears.

Merlin, when did I become such a crier? (The answer is always. I’ve always been a crier; there just didn’t used to be a witness).

Mordelia misses me. Mordelia is fighting for me.

Going to boarding school and having siblings as young and annoying as mine are makes it hard to miss them really, but I do now. The baby is probably walking and talking by now, the twins might not remember my face if they see me again, and Mordelia accepts me and misses me and is fighting for me to come home.

“What did she say?” Simon asks softly, keeping the distance I made between us.

I shrug and hand him the note.

“That’s good then?” He asks. I shrug again.

My eight year old sister has to fight for me because I couldn’t just be normal. It doesn’t feel like it’s good.

After a beat of silence, Simon yawns and says, “You can explain why it’s not good in the morning. Let’s sleep.”

**Simon**

I wake to a pounding head and the slow filtering in of memories from last night, growing progressively hazy throughout the night until they’re suddenly crystal clear.

Mordelia’s letter.

I jolt upright as I remember another letter buried under the chaos of the holidays.

The Queen.

The forest.

I went to find Baz in the first place because I needed his advice on what to do about the letter, but after everything, I don’t think I should tell him. He’s got enough going on already.

I dress quietly in the charmed sweater the Wellbeloves gave me (I forgot how nice it was being able to put on clothes without help) and tiptoe past Dev and Niall in the sitting room to sneak into Penny’s room and shake her awake, being careful not to rouse Agatha beside her.

“Simon, it’s too early,” she grumbles, but she sits up almost immediately, probably an old habit from when everything I had to tell her was literal life-or-death.

“I just remembered this note I found before Christmas.” I show her the curling script and delicate paper.

“Simon.” She says, like she always used to when I didn’t understand something important - like when I thought werewolves were responsible for the attacks fourth year and it was apparently obvious it was Hags’ familiars.

“What?”

“You get a message from the fairy queen, who hasn’t been seen or heard from in years, and you forget about it?”

“The fairy queen?” I feel at least three steps behind, even though the letter was for me.

“”Simon. The fairy queen. Give me a minute to get dressed, and we can head out.”

“Head out?” Now I’m just repeating what she’s saying.

“To a forest. There’s a wooded area in the park down the street that should be sufficient.”

I’m a bit confused because I wasn’t even sure if I was going to go, but I guess I’m used to just doing and thinking later, so I go to be kitchen to let Penelope get ready.

She’s fully awake when she emerges, dressed in jeans and a heavy coat, and she spells my own jacket on me and hides my wings and tail before I have to ask.

“Let’s go,” She says, already through the door. “Before Agatha can wake up and realize what we’re doing.”

“Or Baz,” I add.

She sighs.

Maybe I should make some changes so that’s not such a frequent reaction everyone has to me.

“You didn’t tell Baz.” She stops on the front stairs like she’s going to make us turn back around, but I push past her.

“I was going to, but he has so much going on.”

“You guys are meant to support each other, not hide everything going on to protect the other one,” she says, but she keeps walking, so that’s enough of a win for now.

“Is he hiding something from me?”

“He’s your boyfriend. Ask  _ him _ .”

“I already made him start therapy. I don’t want to push more,” I tell her. When Baz is pushed, he has two responses, push back, and push away, and I can’t risk that.

“How’s _ your  _ therapy going, then? You haven’t mentioned it in weeks.”

That’s because I haven’t spoken to my therapist in weeks. First there was everything with Baz, and then it was the holidays, and who needs therapy at Christmas? It’s the happiest time of year (even if I did kill the Mage last Christmas). I’ll schedule an appointment after we see what the fairy queen wants.

I can’t tell Penelope that, though. It’s so obvious she’s already disappointed in my ability to be a regular person who can do things like remember important notes from fairy queens and communicate with his boyfriend, and I don’t want to give her another reason to sigh at me.

“Yeah, just normal. Nothing worth saying.”

She squints suspiciously at me, like she’s going to challenge that, probably because I once told her the specific conversation about the weather that Dr. Karr and I had, and she knows that something being  _ worth saying _ tends not to have any impact on whether I say it.

“Oh, look, trees!” I say. “Is that enough for the fairy queen?”   
  


She rolls her eyes. (At least it’s not a sigh). “Yes, in fact, that is the exact wooded region in the exact park we were looking for.”

“Great.”

I stay silent as we make our way into the forest until Penelope stops me and says, “I think this is probably far enough.”

“So now we just wait?”

It’s less than a second after I speak that the rustle of the wind in the leaves gets louder and louder until I can’t think over the sound, and when it quiets again, Penny is gone.

“Simon Snow,” a woman says, in an accent posher than even Baz’s. “I’m glad you could make it.”

**Baz**

I wake up alone and check my phone to see that it’s past noon.

Simon usually wakes me up before now.

He’s not in the kitchen, and the sitting room is empty save for a note from Dev and Niall saying they had to head out early, and to keep in touch.

I open Bunce’s door as quietly as I can, only to find Agatha still asleep, sprawled across the bed. So Penelope is gone too, then.

They probably ran off on some errand.

But what errand required doing before noon on New Year’s Day? While they were both hungover?

I won’t worry.

I make lunch, and it’s not until half one that Agatha stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning like it’s dawn and not early afternoon.

Simon and Penelope are still not back. I shove a sandwich at Agatha more aggressively than she probably deserves.

“Did Bunce or Snow text you or wake you up to say where they were going?” I ask before she’s even opened her mouth.

“No, are they not here?”

“Obviously,” I hiss then try to take a deep breath because  _ I will not worry _ .

I stick to that terribly, spending the afternoon pacing and snapping at Agatha, who looks at me with pity at 5:15.

“I have to go to the airport,” she says. “My flight back to school is at half seven.”

She doesn’t move from the couch, so I glare at her. She has to go, so she should go.

“I… don’t feel good about leaving you alone,” she says slowly like I may bite. I guess I  _ am _ a vampire. It’s not a far leap to make.

“I’m fine.”

“Is your aunt around?”

Dr. Karr made me create a “Crisis Safety Plan,” and all I was able to put on it was 1. Talk to Simon, 2. Talk to Penelope, and 3. Talk to Aunt Fiona. Dr. Karr suggested I find something that didn’t have to do with other people, and I think I can see the wisdom in that now.

Not that I’m in Crisis. I’m fine. Vampires don’t even need to breathe.

Maybe.

I shake my head to answer because I can’t get enough air to say that she’s in Spain for the holidays.

I was on edge all day, but this is so much more. Just because Agatha said she had to go. Just because I’m about to be alone again with no bloody idea where Simon even is.

“Baz,” Agatha’s voice is calm, and I think she’s maybe said my name a few times.

I look at her, though it kind of feels like looking through water or the haze of a dream, and she takes that sign of attention to keep speaking, though it takes a full minute of me staring blankly to actually process what she’s saying.

  
“I’m going to stay until Simon and Penny get back. I can reschedule my flight.”

My heart races even faster at that.

“No,” I gasp out.

I’m tricking her into staying. I’m doing this to get her pity and keep her around.

I’m a horrible person (not even person, really), and she can’t change her plans around for me. If I was a good person, I would just calm down and let her go.

“I’m not leaving you like this, Baz,” she insists. “So it’s not really your choice.”

I should argue, but I still can’t speak.

“I don’t know how to help,” Agatha says, and I don’t know how much time had passed because it doesn’t feel like it’s moving at its normal rate, but probably long enough that I shouldn’t still be shaking and gasping for breath. “But I’m here, for whatever that’s worth.”

It’s worth everything.

I reach for her hand across the couch and squeeze it so tightly that I know it must be hurting her (because I  _ hurt _ people), but she lets me until the edges of the world sharpen into focus.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” I whimper when I can talk again, and of fucking course my cheeks are wet with tears and my voice is like that, because what’s a good freak out without crying to go with it.

“If anyone in the world deserves to be a bit fucked up, it’s you,” she replies.

What a strange idea.

“Can you just cast  **Sweet Dreams** ?” I ask. “I want to go to sleep.”

“You know I can’t,” she says.

Overuse of  **Sweet Dreams** can cause the subject to fall into an impenetrable coma, so at least twenty four hours are required between castings on any given individual, but I was kind of hoping she’d forgotten me sneaking into the room she was sharing with Penelope to have her cast it last night.

It’s unlikely that it would put me in a coma since it’s been nearly seventeen hours, and if it did, that would solve more problems than it would cause anyway.

“Yeah,” I agree instead of saying any of that.

I wonder if I can get the Normal pill that puts people to sleep.

“You like vampire stuff, right? Let’s watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” She doesn’t wait for my approval before opening Netflix and starting the first episode.

My eyes start to fall shut before we’re halfway through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for anxiety attack,suicidal ideation, and drinking
> 
> Updates are going to start becoming even slower since school is starting for me in a few weeks, and I have never pre-written anything in my life, but hopefully I can get one more update before this is all AU
> 
> Did you see all that plot I managed to squeeze in there? And a cliffhanger? Also, the Baz and Agatha friendship was something I didn't know I needed until I started writing it, and I love it so much.
> 
> As usual, please kudos and leave comments if you enjoy this because every person who reads and likes this guilts me into updating a little more quickly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Simon**

I’ve never seen Agatha angry before, which I only realize as I open the flat’s door to find her glaring at me and Penny, cold fury radiating from her.

“Where the hell have you been?” She hisses, glancing to her side as she does where I see Baz curled up asleep on the couch.

I don’t know what to tell her. I obviously can’t tell her the truth. I glance to Penny, but she’s silent too.

_ 20 minutes earlier (or ten hours, depending who you ask): _

_ “Simon Snow, I’m glad you could make it.” _

_ “I had some free time to fill,” I say. _

_ The queen laughs lightly. “Hopefully more than some. Time between this realm and yours has a way of misaligning. I’ll make my case as quickly as possible, but I can’t promise you’ll be home before dark.” _ __

_ My stomach drops. I didn’t tell anyone I was going out. _

_ Baz is going to worry if I’m not home. _

_ At this point, though, it’s probably better just to stick it out and hear what the queen has to say. Hopefully Penny went back when she realized there was apparently only one seat open at this meeting and made up a good excuse for me. _

_ “What case?” I ask. _

_ “Something that will benefit us both.” _

“No actually, I  _ know _ that I don’t want to know. I really don’t care about your magickal adventures because that’s really the only explanation to why you disappeared for a  _ whole day _ without telling anyone, and it’s a shitty one.” Agatha says.

“Wait, aren’t you supposed to already be on a plane for California?” Penny asked.

Somehow, Agatha glares even harder.

“Yes, I  _ was _ . But then you guys disappeared, and I wasn’t going to leave Baz here freaking out alone. You talked such big game, Simon, about how concerned you were about his emotional wellbeing and how much he was struggling, but what, you thought, hey let’s just pop out for a quick adventure, my suicidal boyfriend will be fine not knowing where I’ve gone.”

I feel guilt prickling in my spine along with something else, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

“I- I didn’t think,” I stutter, and God, it hasn't been this bad in years.

“Obviously,” She huffs. “I really thought you’d changed.”

I don’t know what to do, but I feel heat building in me, a fire tearing through, and I know I need to get away before it breaks free.

“I- I have to go. I’ll be back.”

As I rush out the door, I hear Agatha whisper, “Did I smell that right?”

_ “You said you’d be quick, but you’re being awfully cryptic,” I tell the queen, and she laughs again. _

_ “Sorry, it’s a habit. I have a mysterious image to maintain after all.” She gestures to a small table and two empty chairs, waiting until I am seated until she sits. I think it’s a power thing. “I want to give you fairy magic,” she says. _

_ I can’t possibly be hearing that right. She wants to give me magic? _

_ “What’s that do for you?” I ask. _

_ “All I want is for you to hold onto it,” she says. “Protect it. Then it’s yours.” _

_ It feels like it can’t possibly be an even deal. Aren’t fairies supposed to be tricksters or something? Or is that pixies? _

_ I wish Penny had been able to come along with me to tell me what all this could mean. _

_ “Why me?” _

_ “You were made to be a vessel for magic. You’re the only one who can possibly hold it.” _

_ “And protect it means…” _

_ “Yes, there might be some who come after you for it. I trust that you’re more than capable of handling them.” _

_ I guess that makes sense. I protect something for her, and in turn, I get to use it. Like house sitting. She wants me to house sit fairy magic. _

_ Except, if she’s using me for fairy magic the same way the Mage was for regular magic… _

_ “Will I create another Humdrum?” I ask. _

_ “Fairy magic is deeper than that of mages. It cannot be used up so easily.” _

_ I can’t think of another reason to say “no,” and Merlin and Morgana do I want this. I can help Baz now. I can put my own clothes on and hide my wings and tail on my own. Christ, I might be able to get rid of the wings and tail (or at least make the wings usable). _

_ I can be myself again. _

_ “Okay, yeah, give me fairy magic,” I agree, feeling a grin spread across my face. _

She told me it would be the same as before, that fairy magic was instinctual and didn’t require spells, though I could use them if they helped me focus, but I forgot what it was like before.

I forgot the way I burn from the inside out until the stench of my own magic is suffocating even me and there’s nothing I can do except  _ go off _ .

I make it back to the park that Penelope and I just left, empty now that it’s night, and I let the power overwhelm me.

I’m exhausted when I stumble home, still in pain all over, and once again, Agatha is waiting for me.

“It’s fairy magic,” I whisper before she can speak. “No Humdrum, no holes, no brewing war. Just, this is a good thing, yeah.”

She sighs. “I hope so. Penelope went to bed. Your magic made her sick.”

“Oh.”

“I think it’s because it brought back memories, you know.”

I didn’t even think of that. I’m the worst friend ever.

“Did it smell the same as before?” I ask.

“Almost. More floral, but still like smoke.”

“Do I smell like it now?”

She doesn’t even have to think before she nods, so it must be strong. “You went off.” It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.

“I should probably shower before Baz wakes up, then.” I say, and I see the disapproval spread across her face.

“You’re not going to tell him?”

“Do you really think he could handle it?” I don’t know exactly what Agatha meant when she said Baz was  _ freaking out _ earlier, but I know it wasn’t minor if she cancelled her flight to stay with him. I hope seeing that is enough to make her understand.

“Do you really think he can handle when he finds out you’ve been lying to him?”

“He’s in therapy. He’s going to get better, and I’ll tell him then. Just… not yet.”

**Baz**

When I wake up to find myself in bed and Simon asleep next to me, I don’t mention anything about his disappearance all day. It was probably just errands, and his phone died or something. It’s not worth overreacting about, especially when having him warm at my side again feels so nice.

Actually, I notice, the heat is just a step past nice, like I’m sharing a bed with a furnace, not a person.

Almost like...

Almost like before Simon lost his magic. Now that I notice it, I notice other things too, the subtle scent of his magic, though slightly different now, the crackling charge in the air.

I get up quietly and crack the window open like it always used to be in our room in Mummers Tower.

He’ll tell me what this means when he wakes up.

-

It’s the fourteenth of January, two weeks since I noticed that Simon had magic again, and he hasn’t said anything yet, though I’ve seen more than enough evidence of his magic to confirm it by now.

He never asks me to spell his clothes on him or disguise his wings and tail.

He always smells like fire and roses.

I know he didn’t turn the stove on to boil the water for tea last night.

Simon is lying to me, and I mean, I know  _ why _ . I’m not trustworthy. One year of being boyfriends doesn’t undo seven years of being enemies.

Only I’d kind of hoped it did.

He’s eating eggs at the kitchen table like everything is normal, hands me a plate when I enter, and I smile like I don’t know what he’s hiding. I’ve really mastered acting like I believe him over the last two weeks.

“You made breakfast?” I ask.

“Because it’s your first day of classes,” he grins through a mouthful of toast. How I ever fell in love with someone who talks with their mouth full is beyond me, but here I am.

I smile softly, and just say, “Thank you.”

So maybe I’m keeping something from Simon too.

Except failing out of university isn’t on remotely the same scale of importance as having magic again. My secret is a small omission to maintain my pride and keep from worrying Simon.

His is a huge fucking deal that he would tell me if he trusted me.

I should confront him.

Except what if he doesn’t trust me? And if he doesn’t trust me, can he actually love me? If he doesn’t really love me, I think I’d rather live in ignorance and pretend he does as long as possible.

Merlin, I really am a monster.

Penelope glares at me as I swing my school bag over my shoulder and give Simon a peck on the lips before heading out to “class.”

I know she hates me lying to Simon because she’s been harassing me about it for three weeks. She says I should let him help me. But if Snow doesn’t love me, I’ve got to start tearing myself away so I don’t unravel completely when he leaves, if that’s even possible.

**Simon**

“It didn’t work,” I sigh.

Penny rolls her eyes, as if to say, “obviously,” but she’s silent.

I don’t know why I thought I could guilt Baz into admitting he wasn’t in school anymore. He’s  _ Baz _ ; guilt is like his least effective motivator.

“Why hasn’t he just told me?” I feel myself start to heat up and take a deep breath.

I know what Penelope’s going to say before she opens her mouth. “Why haven’t you told him?”

We’ve had this conversation at least six times since I accidentally read a notice Baz’s school sent about his academic ineligibility, but I still whine, “I’m trying not to worry him.”

“And he’s doing the same because you’re both idiots,” she says. “Who insist on stoically dealing with everything on their own instead of actually communicating.”

Usually, I just assume Penelope is right, because she always is, but this time, I just know I am. I can’t put this on Baz until he’s more stable himself.

“Simon, I’ve been in a successful long distance relationship for years. Do you know how Micah and I make that work?” 

“Skype?” I suggest.

She rolls her eyes  _ and  _ sighs (double disappointment then). “Communication, Simon. If you want to keep your relationship, you can’t have secrets like this.”

“But if I want to keep Baz  _ alive _ , I can’t upset him any more.”

“He’s made it this far with plenty of things to upset him,” Penny points out. “He’s resilient.”

“But what if this is the one thing that makes it too much?”

**Baz**

“Simon has magic,” I say, sipping my excessively sweet peppermint mocha latte. I figured a coffee shop was as good a place as any to pretend to be at class.

“He finally told you!” Agatha says in relief.

“Nope, but you just did.”

She huffs out a little sigh. “I should honestly be more bothered that I gave that away, but I told him he should tell you.”

“So what happened then? How did he get it back?”

“I didn’t ask, didn’t really want to know. He said it was fairy magic though, and that apparently that meant no new Humdrum, so no worries there.”

“Yes,” I chuckle bitterly. “Because that’s what I was worried about. Not my boyfriend keeping a massive fucking secret from me.”

“I told him that you wouldn’t like being lied to,” she says.

“So why isn’t he telling me? Does he really not trust me after all this time?”

“No, Baz, you must know it’s not that.”

I make a noncommittal sound in the back of my throat. “Then what?”

“He doesn’t want to put something else on your plate. He doesn’t want to worry you.”

I think that’s worse.

I’m so weak and pathetic that Simon didn’t think he could tell me about this. I’m too much of a mess to be anything but a burden on him.

“I can practically hear you spiralling Baz,” Agatha says.

“I’m fine,” I snap, which, yeah, Agatha has probably realized by now is a sign that I’m not fine.

“Talk to Simon,” she says. “Or this is just going to get worse.”

And what a thought that is, of this getting worse, of Snow and I tiptoeing around each other until we’re nothing but shells full of secrets and then we’re just nothing. I can’t let that happen.

I need Simon.

“I’m supposed to be in class right now, though.”

“Then talk to Simon about that, too.”

**Simon**

The door flies open, and framed by the doorway is Baz, looking as stunning and dramatic as ever.

“You didn’t need to use  **Open Sesame** . You have a key,” Penelope says.

“Snow, we need to talk,” he declares, and I’m starting to understand all the theatrics. Baz can’t just ask for a regular heart-to-heart. He has to announce it and make it into a show. Because he’s Baz.

“About how you failed out of uni?” I ask.

“You knew?” His voice is at least a pitch higher than usual, so I know I’ve caught him off guard.

“I’m going to leave you to it,” Penelope says, trying to slide past Baz through the door, but before she can make it out, it slams shut behind her, shoving her and Baz forward into the flat.

I open my mouth to ask what just happened, but then the windows fling themselves open, and a swirling cloud is swept in, filling up the small space at an alarming rate. I can see that whatever’s making up the cloud is moving independently, but I can’t quite make out what it is, especially as the space gets tighter.

I try to shout to Baz and Penelope, but as soon as I open my mouth, the creatures try to fly in, so I slam it shut.

Baz is repeating “ **Gone in the blink of an eye** ,” and Penny tries “ **Out of sight, out of mind** ,” and I think I see the mass of fluttering creatures decrease slightly, but more take their place faster than they can be dispersed.

“I know you have magic again, Simon. Use it or we’re all going to suffocate to death on fucking butterflies,” Baz calls, breaking for a moment from his spell.

Butterflies, Baz said, and it’s suddenly impossibly clear that this is what the fairy queen was talking about when she said someone might be coming after me.

But I have magic again, and I can stop this. I try to will them away, try the spells Baz and Penny are using, but nothing happens, or if anything does, it’s not enough. I feel the magic building in me again, and I know there’s only one way.

“I have to go off!” I cry out in warning, letting the magic fill me to the brim until it wants to overflow, until it’s pushing out at me, and until it explodes, turning the butterflies to ash where they’re flying, and slamming all the windows shut.

The smoke hovers thick in the now closed off room, and it takes a moment for my vision to clear. When it does, I find Penny on her knees, struggling for breath and Baz with a steadying hand on her back.

“Shit, Pen, I’m sorry. Agatha told me about last time, but I just. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Are the butterflies gone?” Baz asks. Glancing out the window and seeing the sky clear, I nod. “Then open the windows.”

I do as Baz said, opening every window in the flat to let it air out then return to the sitting room where Penny has made it to the couch and Baz is pacing.

I know there’s a lot to say to him, but all I can think of is, “who told you I had magic again?”

I haven’t seen such ice in his glare since before we got together, and it sends a shiver through me. “I figured it out, Snow. I lived with you for years when you had magic and a year when you didn’t. Did you really think I wouldn’t know the difference?”

“I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“I need fresh air, and you clearly need time alone to talk, so I’m going for a walk,” Penny announces, standing up shakily.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Baz asks, rushing to her side to steady her if she needs it.

“I’ll be better when this flat clears out a bit more, but I’m fine.” She marches to the door as if to prove her point and shuts it firmly behind her, leaving Baz and I completely alone.

**Baz**

“So I’m just so pathetic that you thought I couldn’t handle the truth from you?” I ask, angrier than I’ve been in a long time.

Somehow, on the walk from the coffee shop to here, or somewhere in the fight with the butterflies that are now ash dirtying the flat’s carpet, my resolution and self pity turned into this cold anger.

“It’s- It’s not like that,” Simon splutters.

“Then what’s it like?”

He sinks down into the couch. “I just didn’t want to complicate you getting better.”

“What about  _ you  _ getting better?” I hiss.

He looks genuinely confused, and I feel part of my anger fizzle. “I am better, though,” he says. “I have my magic back.”

I join him on the couch but keep a cushion between us because I know if I don’t, I’m going to reach out to him, and I’m not ready to stop being mad yet.

“You know that losing your magic was not the biggest problem you had, right?”

He shrugs. “I processed the trauma, too.”

“Did you?” I raise an eyebrow “So you don’t still believe you need to be perfect and save everyone? You didn’t just go off instead of using any smaller smell to get rid of a butterfly swarm?”

He shrugs, and I see his shoulders start to shake. “I just want to be better, and for all that shit to be behind me.”

I slide across the couch until I’m practically in Simon’s lap because how can I stay mad when he looks like he’s about to cry. “Maybe someday,” I whisper against his neck. I don’t know if that’s really true, if the past can ever fully be behind you, but I know Simon needs to believe it can.

He pulls me into his arms. “So why did you lie to me about school then?”

“I didn’t want to worry you more,” and the irony hits me as I’m saying it, and I can’t keep a laugh from escaping.

Simon starts laughing with me, and when we both stop, we’re breathless and grinning.

“From here on out, no more hiding things to protect each other, yeah?” he suggests.

I nod. “We’re stronger together, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter than usual because I was determined to get this out tonight. Tomorrow, this all probably becomes AU. In a week, I also start classes, so if you think I've given up on this fic because of canon or something, just know that I didn't. I'll still be updating, just not as frequently because school comes first.
> 
> This chapter was basically me taking the common trope of people not communicating and planning on using it for a few chapters as prolonged conflict except realizing I hated that and couldn't do it and just wanted Simon and Baz to talk and help each other, so I turned it into that instead.
> 
> Also a great deal of plot happening here, so go me for that.
> 
> As always, please leave a kudos and a comment to tell me how you feel.


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